R  IN  The  FIELDS 


WRITINGS 


GIFT  OF 
A.    F.    Morrison 


JOHN    BURROUGHS 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  WRITINGS 

OF  JOHN  BURROUGHS :  WITH 

ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM 

PHOTOGRAPHS 

BY  CLIFTON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

(SC&e  Biber^ibe  pre^,  CamlJrib0e 
1896 


D7 


GIFT  OF 


Copyright,  1875,  1877,  1879,  1881,  1886,  1894,  and  1895, 
By 


Copyright, 
KtEtr6N/cM 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  and  Company. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION vii 

I.  A  SNOW-STORM       .....  i 

II.  WINTER  NEIGHBORS 13 

III.  A  SPRING  RELISH  .....  41 

IV.  APRIL 67 

V.  BIRCH  BROWSINGS 85 

VI.  A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS. 

FRAGRANT  WILD  FLOWERS        .       .125 

WEEDS I3S 

VII.  AUTUMN  TIDES 159 

VIII.  A  SHARP  LOOKOUT        .       .       .       .  179 


M92332 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

JOHN  BURROUGHS  ....      Frontispiece 

THE  STUDY 2 

OUT  FOR  A  WALK 14 

THE  OLD  APPLE-TREE 18 

WINTER  AT  RIVERBY  ON  THE  HUDSON     .       .  26 

WOOD  FOR  THE  STUDY  FIRE  .       .       .       .  38 
AN  EVENING  IN  SPRING      .       .       .       .       .42 

AT  THE  STUDY  DOOR       .       .       .       .       .  -  50 
A  WOODLAND  BROOK  .       .       ,              .       .62 

AN  APRIL  DAY 70 

THE  LAST  SNOW  PATCHES 82 

THE  HOME  OF  A  SPIDER 86 

A  BIRD  SONG 98 

IN  THE  WOODS 122 

PICKING  WILD  FLOWERS 134 

A  FLOWER  IN  A  WOODLAND  ROADWAY        .  146 

A  CATSKILL  ROADWAY        .....  166 

ON  THE  EDGE  OF  A  CATSKILL  "  SUGAR  BUSH  "  182 

BEECHNUTS .  194 

(Mr.  Burroughs's  Boyhood  Home  seen  in  the 
distance.) 

BY  THE  STUDY  FIRE  206 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  all  that  John  Burroughs  writes  the 
personal  element  is  very  marked.  He  is 
not  in  the  least  akin  to  those  writers  who, 
in  what  they  describe,  leave  themselves  out. 
Neither  is  he  like  those  others  who  put  them- 
selves in,  yet  are  so  self-conscious  about  it, 
or  have  in  themselves  so  little  of  attractive- 
ness, that  the  reader  wishes  they  had  not. 

Not  only  is  Mr.  Burroughs  present  in 
what  he  writes,  but  we  are  glad  to  have  him 
present.  We  enjoy  what  he  says,  and  we 
enjoy  him.  He  is  a  thoroughly  good  com- 
panion, unaffected,  keen  -  minded,  pictur- 
esque in  his  expression.  We  meet  him  in 
his  books  face  to  face,  we  get  acquainted 
with  him  almost  as  if  the  walks  and  talks 
were  living  realities  in  which  we  shared. 

In  preparing  the  illustrations  for  the  pres- 
ent volume  of  essays,  the  plan  has  been  to 
carry  the  personal  feature  of  the  text  a  step 
farther,  —  to  make  the  sense  of  companion- 
ship one  feels  as  he  reads  still  more  vivid 
and  real.  To  do  this,  I  made  several  visits 
vii 


INTRODUCTION 

to  Mr.  Burroughs's  home  on  the  Hudson, 
and  also  went  with  him  to  his  boyhood 
home  far  back  in  the  Catskills.  In  these 
visits  we  rambled  and  talked  and  saw  birds 
and  found  flowers  together;  and  now  and 
then  in  some  familiar  haunt  of  our  nature 
lover  I  secured  a  picture  of  him.  The 
picture-making  was  never  long-studied,  —  it 
came  in  naturally  with  the  tramping,  and  it 
did  not  interfere  in  the  least  with  our  having 
a  good  time.  These  rambles  ranged  through 
all  the  four  seasons,  just  as  do  the  essays  se- 
lected for  illustration,  —  from  white  winter 
through  mellow  spring  and  the  full-leaved 
greenness  of  summer,  around  to  the  last 
brown  and  withered  days  of  autumn. 

Among  the  pleasantest  of  my  experiences 
I  remember  the  evenings  I  spent  in  the  little 
bark-covered  study  at  "Riverby,"  as  Mr. 
Burroughs  has  named  his  fruit  farm  on  the 
Hudson.  The  open  fire  blazed  cheerfully, 
and  the  chilly  blackness  of  the  outside  night 
was  forgotten.  I  had  my  chair  at  one  side 
of  the  hearth,  while  on  the  other  side  sat 
Mr.  Burroughs  with  a  big  cat  in  his  lap, 
and  the  conditions  seemed  perfect  for  a  de- 
lightful evening  of  thinking  and  talking 
with  no  hurry  and  no  worry, 
viii 


INTRODUCTION 

As  a  companion  Mr.  Burroughs  is  just 
as  enjoyable  as  one  would  imagine  him  to 
be  from  his  writings.  He  likes  the  simple 
things  of  life,  has  an  affinity  for  old  clothes 
and  broad-toed  shoes,  and  for  comfort  al- 
ways before  style.  Mr.  Burroughs  calls 
himself  a  farmer  rather  than  a  writer,  and, 
in  truth,  he  has  quite  the  farmer  look,  and 
in  a  casual  acquaintance  you  might  never 
suspect  him  to  be  the  man  of  letters  that 
he  is.  But,  however  that  may  be,  you  en- 
joy the  man  himself.  It  is  just  as  it  is  in 
reading  what  he  writes,  —  artificialities  slip 
away,  and  we  become  primitive  and  simple 
and  free.  An  excursion  with  him,  in  a 
book  or  out  of  a  book,  is  freshening  and 
helpful ;  and  if  the  pictures  in  this  volume, 
which  accompany  eight  of  John  Burroughs's 
essays,  assist  to  a  closer  acquaintance  with 
him  and  the  home  regions  he  describes, 
they  serve  their  purpose. 

CLIFTON  JOHNSON. 
ix 


A   YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 


THAT  is  a  striking  line  with  which  Emer- 
son opens  his  beautiful  poem  of  the  Snow- 
Storm :  — 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight." 

One  seems  to  see  the  clouds  puffing  their 
cheeks  as  they  sound  the  charge  of  their 
white  legions.  But  the  line  is  more  accu- 
rately descriptive  of  a  rain-storm,  as,  in  both 
summer  and  winter,  rain  is  usually  preceded 
by  wind.  Homer,  describing  a  snow-storm 
in  his  time,  says  :  — 

"  The  winds  are  lulled." 

The  preparations  of  a  snow-storm  are,  as  a 
rule,  gentle  and  quiet ;  a  marked  hush  per- 
vades both  the  earth  and  the  sky.  The 
movements  of  the  celestial  forces  are  muf- 
fled, as  if  the  snow  already  paved  the  way 


A   YEAR   IN   THE   FIELDS 

of  their  coming.  There  is  no  uproar,  no 
clashing  of  arms,  no  blowing  of  wind  trum- 
pets. These  soft,  feathery,  exquisite  crys- 
tals are  formed  as  if  in  the  silence  and  pri- 
vacy of  the  inner  cloud-chambers.  Rude 
^  would  break  the  spell  and  mar  the 
^Th3  clouds  are  smoother,  and 
t. slower. in  their  rjiovements,  with  less  defi- 
ittifcj^  outlines  /than"  those  which  bring  rain. 
In  fact,  everything  is  prophetic  of  the  gen- 
tle and  noiseless  meteor  that  is  approaching, 
and  of  the  stillness  that  is  to  succeed  it, 
when  "  all  the  batteries  of  sound  are  spiked," 
as  Lowell  says,  and  "  we  see  the  movements 
of  life  as  a  deaf  man  sees  it,  —  a  mere 
wraith  of  the  clamorous  existence  that  in- 
flicts itself  on  our  ears  when  the  ground  is 
bare."  After  the  storm  is  fairly  launched 
the  winds  not  infrequently  awake,  and,  see- 
ing their  opportunity,  pipe  the  flakes  a  lively 
dance.  I  am  speaking  now  of  the  typical, 
full-born  midwinter  storm  that  comes  to  us 
from  the  North  or  N.  N.  E.,  and  that  piles 
the  landscape  knee-deep  with  snow.  Such 
a  storm  once  came  to  us  the  last  day  of 
January,  —  the  master-storm  of  the  winter. 
Previous  to  that  date,  we  had  had  but  light 
snow.  The  spruces  had  been  able  to  catch 


THE   STUDY 


A  SNOW-STORM 

it  all  upon  their  arms,  and  keep  a  circle  of 
bare  ground  beneath  them  where  the  birds 
scratched.  But  the  day  following  this  fall, 
they  stood  with  their  lower  branches  com- 
pletely buried.  If  the  Old  Man  of  the 
North  had  but  sent  us  his  couriers  and 
errand-boys  before,  the  old  graybeard  ap- 
peared himself  at  our  doors  on  this  occasion, 
and  we  were  all  his  subjects.  His  flag  was 
upon  every  tree  and  roof,  his  seal  upon 
every  door  and  window,  and  his  embargo 
upon  every  path  and  highway.  He  slipped 
down  upon  us,  too,  under  the  cover  of  such  a 
bright,  seraphic  day,  — a  day  that  disarmed 
suspicion  with  all  but  the  wise  ones,  a  day 
without  a  cloud  or  a  film,  a  gentle  breeze 
from  the  west,  a  dry,  bracing  air,  a  blazing 
sun  that  brought  out  the  bare  ground  under 
the  lee  of  the  fences  and  farm-buildings, 
and  at  night  a  spotless  moon  near  her  full. 
The  next  morning  the  sky  reddened  in  the 
east,  then  became  gray,  heavy,  and  silent. 
A  seamless  cloud  covered  it.  The  smoke 
from  the  chimneys  went  up  with  a  barely 
perceptible  slant  toward  the  north.  In  the 
forenoon  the  cedar-birds,  purple  finches, 
yellowbirds,  nuthatches,  bluebirds,  were  in 
flocks  or  in  couples  and  trios  about  the  trees, 
3 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

more  or  less  noisy  and  loquacious.  About 
noon  a  thin  white  veil  began  to  blur  the 
distant  southern  mountains.  It  was  like  a 
white  dream  slowly  descending  upon  them. 
The  first  flake  or  flakelet  that  reached  me 
was  a  mere  white  speck  that  came  idly  cir- 
cling and  eddying  to  the  ground.  I  could 
not  see  it  after  it  alighted.  It  might  have 
been  a  scale  from  the  feather  of  some  pass- 
ing bird,  or  a  larger  mote  in  the  air  that  the 
stillness  was  allowing  to  settle.  Yet  it  was 
the  altogether  inaudible  and  infinitesimal 
trumpeter  that  announced  the  coming  storm, 
the  grain  of  sand  that  heralded  the  desert. 
Presently  another  fell,  then  another ;  the 
white  mist  was  creeping  up  the  river  valley. 
How  slowly  and  loiteringly  it  came,  and  how 
microscopic  its  first  siftings  ! 

This  mill  is  bolting  its  flour  very  fine,  you 
think.  But  wait  a  little  ;  it  gets  coarser  by 
and  by  ;  you  begin  to  see  the  flakes  ;  they 
increase  in  numbers  and  in  size,  and  before 
one  o'clock  it  is  snowing  steadily.  The 
flakes  come  straight  down,  but  in  a  half 
hour  they  have  a  marked  slant  toward  the 
north ;  the  wind  is  taking  a  hand  in  the 
game.  By  mid-afternoon  the  storm  is  com- 
ing in  regular  pulse-beats  or  in  vertical 
4 


A  SNOW-STORM 

waves.  The  wind  is  not  strong,  but  seems 
steady ;  the  pines  hum,  yet  there  is  a  sort 
of  rhythmic  throb  in  the  meteor;  the  air 
toward  the  wind  looks  ribbed  with  steady- 
moving  vertical  waves  of  snow.  The  im- 
pulses travel  along  like  undulations  in  a 
vast  suspended  white  curtain,  imparted  by 
some  invisible  hand  there  in  the  northeast. 
As  the  day  declines  the  storm  waxes,  the 
wind  increases,  the  snow-fall  thickens,  and 

"  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  inclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm," 

a  privacy  which  you  feel  outside  as  well  as 
in.  Out-of-doors  you  seem  in  a  vast  tent 
of  snow ;  the  distance  is  shut  out,  near-by 
objects  are  hidden  ;  there  are  white  curtains 
above  you  and  white  screens  about  you,  and 
you  •  feel  housed  and  secluded  in  storm. 
Your  friend  leaves  your  door,  and  he  is 
wrapped  away  in  white  obscurity,  caught 
up  in  a  cloud,  and  his  footsteps  are  obliter- 
ated. Travelers  meet  on  the  road,  and  do 
not  see  or  hear  each  other  till  they  are  face 
to  face.  The  passing  train,  half  a  mile 
away,  gives  forth  a  mere  wraith  of  sound. 
Its  whistle  is  deadened  as  in  a  dense  wood. 
Still  the  storm  rose.  At  five  o'clock  I 
5 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

went  forth  to  face  it  in  a  two-mile  walk.  It 
was  exhilarating  in  the  extreme.  The  snow 
was  lighter  than  chaff.  It  had  been  dried 
in  the  Arctic  ovens  to  the  last  degree. 
The  foot  sped  through  it  without  hindrance. 
I  fancied  the  grouse  and  quails  quietly  sit- 
ting down  in  the  open  places,  and  letting  it 
drift  over  them.  With  head  under  wing, 
and  wing  snugly  folded,  they  would  be  softly 
and  tenderly  buried  in  a  few  moments. 
The  mice  and  the  squirrels  were  in  their 
dens,  but  I  fancied  the  fox  asleep  upon  some 
rock  or  log,  and  allowing  the  flakes  to  cover 
him.  The  hare  in  her  form,  too,  was  being 
warmly  sepulchred  with  the  rest.  I  thought 
of  the  young  cattle  and  the  sheep  huddled 
together  on  the  lee  side  of  a  haystack  in 
some  remote  field,  all  enveloped  in  mantles 
of  white. 

"  I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  wintry  war, 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scaur. 

"  Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 
And  close  thyee?" 
6 


A  SNOW-STORM 

As  I  passed  the  creek,  I  noticed  the 
white  woolly  masses  that  filled  the  water. 
It  was  as  if  somebody  upstream  had  been 
washing  his  sheep  and  the  water  had  carried 
away  all  the  wool,  and  I  thought  of  the 
Psalmist's  phrase,  "He  giveth  snow  like 
wool."  On  the  river  a  heavy  fall  of  snow 
simulates  a  thin  layer  of  cotton  batting. 
The  tide  drifts  it  along,  and,  where  it  meets 
with  an  obstruction  alongshore,  it  folds  up 
and  becomes  wrinkled  or  convoluted  like 
a  fabric,  or  like  cotton  sheeting.  Attempt 
to  row  a  boat  through  it,  and  it  seems  in- 
deed like  cotton  or  wool,  every  fibre  of 
which  resists  your  progress. 

As  the  sun  went  down  and  darkness  fell, 
the  storm  impulse  reached  its  full.  It  be- 
came a  wild  conflagration  of  wind  and  snow ; 
the  world  was  wrapt  in  frost  flame ;  it  en- 
veloped one,  and  penetrated  his  lungs  and 
caught  away  his  breath  like  a  blast  from  a 
burning  city.  How  it  whipped  around  and 
under  every  cover  and  searched  out  every 
crack  and  crevice,  sifting  under  the  shingles 
in  the  attic,  darting  its  white  tongue  under 
the  kitchen  door,  puffing  its  breath  down 
the  chimney,  roaring  through  the  woods, 
stalking  like  a  sheeted  ghost  across  the 
7 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

hills,  bending  in  white  and  ever-changing 
forms  above  the  fences,  sweeping  across  the 
plains,  whirling  in  eddies  behind  the  build- 
ings, or  leaping  spitefully  up  their  walls,  — 
in  short,  taking  tHe  world  entirely  to  itself, 
and  giving  a  loose  rein  to  its  desire. 

But  in  the  morning,  behold  !  the  world 
was  not  consumed  ;  it  was  not  the  besom  of 
destruction,  after  all,  but  the  gentle  hand  of 
mercy.  How  deeply  and  warmly  and  spot- 
lessly Earth's  nakedness  is  clothed!  —  the 
"wool"  of  the  Psalmist  nearly  two  feet 
deep.  And  as  far  as  warmth  and  protec- 
tion are  concerned,  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
the  virtue  of  wool  in  such  a  snow-fall.  How 
it  protects  the  grass,  the  plants,  the  roots 
of  the  trees,  and  the  worms,  insects,  and 
smaller  animals  in  the  ground!  It  is  a  veri- 
table fleece,  beneath  which  the  shivering 
earth  ("the  frozen  hills  ached  with  pain," 
says  one  of  our  young  poets)  is  restored  to 
warmth.  When  the  temperature  of  the  air 
is  at  zero,  the  thermometer,  placed  at  the 
surface  of  the  ground  beneath  a  foot  and  a 
half  of  snow,  would  probably  indicate  but  a 
few  degrees  below  freezing;  the  snow  is 
rendered  such  a  perfect  non-conductor  of 
heat  mainly  by  reason  of  the  quantity  of  air 
8 


A  SNOW-STORM 

that  is  caught  and  retained  between  the 
crystals.  Then  how,  like  a  fleece  of  wool, 
it  rounds  and  fills  out  the  landscape,  and 
makes  the  leanest  and  most  angular  field 
look  smooth ! 

The  day  dawned,  and  continued  as  inno- 
cent and  fair  as  the  day  which  had  preceded, 
—  two  mountain  peaks  of  sky  and  sun,  with 
their  valley  of  cloud  and  snow  between. 
Walk  to  the  nearest  spring  run  on  such  a 
morning,  and  you  can  see  the  Colorado 
valley  and  the  great  canons  of  the  West 
in  miniature,  carved  in  alabaster.  In  the 
midst  of  the  plain  of  snow  lie  these  chasms  ; 
the  vertical  walls,  the  bold  headlands,  the 
turrets  and  spires  and  obelisks,  the  rounded 
and  towering  capes,  the  carved  and  but- 
tressed precipices,  the  branch  valleys  and 
canons,  and  the  winding  and  tortuous  course 
of  the  main  channel  are  all  here,  —  all  that 
the  Yosemite  or  Yellowstone  have  to  show, 
except  the  terraces  and  the  cascades. 
Sometimes  my  canon  is  bridged,  and  one's 
fancy  runs  nimbly  across  a  vast  arch  of 
Parian  marble,  and  that  makes  up  for  the 
falls  and  the  terraces.  Where  the  ground 
is  marshy,  I  come  upon  a  pretty  and  vivid 
illustration  of  what  I  have  read  and  been 
9 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

told  of  the  Florida  formation.  This  white 
and  brittle  limestone  is  undermined  by  wa- 
ter. Here  are  the  dimples  and  depressions, 
the  sinks  and  the  wells,  the  springs  and 
the  lakes.  Some  places  a  mouse  might 
break  through  the  surface  and  reveal  the 
water  far  beneath,  or  the  snow  gives  way 
of  its  own  weight,  and  you  have  a  minute 
Florida  well,  with  the  truncated  cone-shape 
and  all.  The  arched  and  subterranean 
pools  and  passages  are  there  likewise. 

But  there  is  a  more  beautiful  and  funda- 
mental geology  than  this  in  the  snow-storm  : 
we  are  admitted  into  Nature's  oldest  labora- 
tory, and  see  the  working  of  the  law  by  which 
the  foundations  of  the  material  universe 
were  laid, — the  law  or  mystery  of  crys- 
tallization. The  earth  is  built  upon  crys- 
tals ;  the  granite  rock  is  only  a  denser  and 
more  compact  snow,  or  a  kind  of  ice  that 
was  vapor  once  and  may  be  vapor  again. 
"Every  stone  is  nothing  else  but  a  con- 
gealed lump  of  frozen  earth,"  says  Plutarch. 
By  cold  and  pressure  air  can  be  liquefied, 
perhaps  solidified.  A  little  more  time,  a 
little  more  heat,  and  the  hills  are  but  April 
snow-banks.  Nature  has  but  two  forms, 
the  cell  and  the  crystal,  —  the  crystal  first, 
10 


A   SNOW-STORM 

the  cell  last.  All  organic  nature  is  built 
up  of  the  cell ;  all  inorganic,  of  the  crystal. 
Cell  upon  cell  rises  the  vegetable,  rises  the 
animal ;  crystal  wedded  to  and  compacted 
with  crystal  stretches  the  earth  beneath 
them.  See  in  the  falling  snow  the  old 
cooling  and  precipitation,  and  the  shooting, 
radiating  forms  that  are  the  architects  of 
planet  and  globe. 

We  love  the  sight  of  the  brown  and 
ruddy  earth ;  it  is  the  color  of  life,  while  a 
snow-covered  plain  jp  the  face  of  death ; 
yet  snow  is  but  the  mask  of  the  life-giving 
rain  ;  it,  too,  is  the  friend  of  man,  —  the 
tender,  sculpturesque,  immaculate,  warm- 
ing, fertilizing  snow. 

ii 


II 

WINTER    NEIGHBORS 

THE  country  is  more  of  a  wilderness, 
more  of  a  wild  solitude,  in  the  winter  than 
in  the  summer.  The  wild  comes  out.  The 
urban,  the  cultivated,  is  hidden  or  nega- 
tived. You  shall  hardly  know  a  good  field 
from  a  poor,  a  meadow  from  a  pasture,  a 
park  from  a  forest.  Lines  and  boundaries 
are  disregarded ;  gates  and  bar-ways  are 
unclosed ;  man  lets  go  his  hold  upon  the 
earth ;  title-deeds  are  deep  buried  beneath 
the  snow ;  the  best-kept  grounds  relapse  to 
a  state  of  nature;  under  the  pressure  of 
the  cold,  all  the  wild  creatures  become  out- 
laws, and  roam  abroad  beyond  their  usual 
haunts.  The  partridge  comes  to  the  or- 
chard for  buds;  the  rabbit  comes  to  the 
garden  and  lawn ;  the  crows  and  jays  come 
to  the  ash-heap  and  corn-crib,  the  snow 
buntings  to  the  stack  and  to  the  barnyard ; 
the  sparrows  pilfer  from  the  domestic  fowls  ; 
the  pine  grosbeak  comes  down  from  the 
north  and  shears  your  maples  of  their  buds ; 
13 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

the  fox  prowls  about  your  premises  at 
night ;  and  the  red  squirrels  find  your  grain 
in  the  barn  or  steal  the  butternuts  from 
your  attic.  In  fact,  winter,  like  some  great 
calamity,  changes  the  status  of  most  crea- 
tures and  sets  them  adrift.  Winter,  like 
poverty,  makes  us  acquainted  with  strange 
bedfellows. 

For  my  part,  my  nearest  approach  to  a 
strange  bedfellow  is  the  little  gray  rabbit 
that  has  taken  up  her  abode  under  my 
study  floor.  As  she  spends  the  day  here 
and  is  out  larking  at  night,  she  is  not  much 
of  a  bedfellow,  after  all.  It  is  probable 
that  I  disturb  her  slumbers  more  than  she 
does  mine.  I  think  she  is  some  support  to 
me  under  there,  —  a  silent,  wide-eyed  wit- 
ness and  backer ;  a  type  of  the  gentle  and 
harmless  in  savage  nature.  She  has  no 
sagacity  to  give  me  or  lend  me,  but  that 
soft,  nimble  foot  of  hers,  and  that  touch  as 
of  cotton  wherever  she  goes,  are  worthy  of 
emulation.  I  think  I  can  feel  her  good- 
will through  the  floor,  and  I  hope  she  can 
mine.  When  I  have  a  happy  thought,  I 
imagine  her  ears  twitch,  especially  when  I 
think  of  the  sweet  apple  I  will  place  by  her 
doorway  at  night.  I  wonder  if  that  fox 
14 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

chanced  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  the  other 
night  when  he  stealthily  leaped  over  the 
fence  near  by  and  walked  along  between 
the  study  and  the  house?  How  clearly 
one  could  read  that  it  was  not  a  little  dog 
that  had  passed  there !  There  was  some- 
thing furtive  in  the  track  ;  it  shied  off  away 
from  the  house  and  around  it,  as  if  eying  it 
suspiciously;  and  then  it  had  the  caution 
and  deliberation  of  the  fox,  —  bold,  bold, 
but  not  too  bold ;  wariness  was  in  every 
footprint.  If  it  had  been  a  little  dog  that 
had  chanced  to  wander  that  way,  when  he 
crossed  my  path  he  would  have  followed  it 
up  to  the  barn  and  have  gone  smelling 
around  for  a  bone  ;  but  this  sharp,  cautious 
track  held  straight  across  all  others,  keep- 
ing five  or  six  rods  from  the  house,  up  the 
hill,  across  the  highway  toward  a  neighbor- 
ing farmstead,  with  its  nose  in  the  air,  and 
its  eye  and  ear  alert,  so  to  speak. 

A  winter  neighbor  of  mine,  in  whom  I 
am  interested,  and  who  perhaps  lends  me 
his  support  after  his  kind,  is  a  little  red 
owl,  whose  retreat  is  in  the  heart  of  an  old 
apple-tree  just  over  the  fence.  Where  he 
keeps  himself  in  spring  and  summer,  I  do 
not  know,  but  late  every  fall,  and  at  inter- 


A   YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

vals  all  winter,  his  hiding-place  is  discov- 
ered by  the  jays  and  nuthatches,  and  pro- 
claimed from  the  treetops  for  the  space  of 
half  an  hour  or  so,  with  all  the  powers  of 
voice  they  can  command.  Four  times  dur- 
ing one  winter  they  called  me  out  to  behold 
this  little  ogre  feigning  sleep  in  his  den, 
sometimes  in  one  apple-tree,  sometimes  in 
another.  Whenever  I  heard  their  cries,  I 
knew  my  neighbor  was  being  berated.  The 
birds  would  take  turns  at  looking  in  upon 
him,  and  uttering  their  alarm-notes.  Every 
jay  within  hearing  would  come  to  the  spot, 
and  at  once  approach  the  hole  in  the  trunk 
or  limb,  and  with  a  kind  of  breathless  eager- 
ness and  excitement  take  a  peep  at  the  owl, 
and  then  join  the  outcry.  When  I  ap- 
proached they  would  hastily  take  a  final 
look,  and  then* withdraw  and  regard  my 
movements  intently.  After  accustoming 
my  eye  to  the  faint  light  of  the  cavity 
for  a  few  moments,  I  could  usually  make 
out  the  owl  at  the  bottom  feigning  sleep. 
Feigning,  I  say,  because  this  is  what  he 
really  did,  as  I  first  discovered  one  day 
when  I  cut  into  his  retreat  with  the  axe. 
The  loud  blows  and  the  falling  chips  did 
not  disturb  him  at  all.  When  I  reached 
16 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

in  a  stick  and  pulled  him  over  on  his  side, 
leaving  one  of  his  wings  spread  out,  he 
made  no  attempt  to  recover  himself,  but  lay 
among  the  chips  and  fragments  of  decayed 
wood,  like  a  part  of  themselves.  Indeed, 
it  took  a  sharp  eye  to  distinguish  him. 
Not  till  I  had  pulled  him  forth  by  one 
wing,  rather  rudely,  did  he  abandon  his 
trick  of  simulated  sleep  or  death.  Then, 
like  a  detected  pickpocket,  he  was  suddenly 
transformed  into  another  creature.  His 
eyes  flew  wide  open,  his  talons  clutched  my 
finger,  his  ears  were  depressed,  and  every 
motion  and  look  said,  "  Hands  off,  at  your 
peril."  Finding  this  game  did  not  work, 
he  soon  began  to  "  play  'possum  "  again. 
I  put  a  cover  over  my  study  wood-box  and 
kept  him  captive  for  a  week.  Look  in 
upon  him  at  any  time,  night  or  day,  and  he 
was  apparently  wrapped  in  the  profoundest 
slumber ;  but  the  live  mice  which  I  put 
into  his  box  from  time  to  time  found  his 
sleep  was  easily  broken  ;  there  would  be  a 
sudden  rustle  in  the  box,  a  faint  squeak, 
and  then  silence.  After  a  week  of  captiv- 
ity I  gave  him  his  freedom  in  the  full  sun- 
shine :  no  trouble  for  him  to  see  which  way 
and  where  to  go. 

17 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

Just  at  dusk  in  the  winter  nights,  I  often 
hear  his  soft  bur-r-r-r,  very  pleasing  and 
bell-like.  What  a  furtive,  woody  sound  it 
is  in  the  winter  stillness,  so  unlike  the 
harsh  scream  of  the  hawk !  But  all  the 
ways  of  the  owl  are  ways  of  softness  and 
duskiness.  His  wings  are  shod  with  silence, 
his  plumage  is  edged  with  down. 

Another  owl  neighbor  of  mine,  with  whom 
I  pass  the  time  of  day  more  frequently  than 
with  the  last,  lives  farther  away.  I  pass 
his  castle  every  night  on  my  way  to  the 
post-office,  and  in  winter,  if  the  hour  is  late 
enough,  am  pretty  sure  to  see  him  standing 
in  his  doorway,  surveying  the  passers-by 
and  the  landscape  through  narrow  slits  in 
his  eyes.  For  four  successive  winters  now 
have  I  observed  him.  As  the  twilight  be- 
gins to  deepen,  he  rises  up  out  of  his  cavity 
in  the  apple-tree,  scarcely  faster  than  the 
moon  rises  from  behind  the  hill,  and  sits  in 
the  opening,  completely  framed  by  its  out- 
lines of  gray  bark  and  dead  wood,  and  by 
his  protective  coloring  virtually  invisible  to 
every  eye  that  does  not  know  he  is  there. 
Probably  my  own  is  the  only  eye  that  has 
ever  penetrated  his  secret,  and  mine  never 
would  have  done  so  had  I  not  chanced  on 
18 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

one  occasion  to  see  him  leave  his  retreat 
and  make  a  raid  upon  a  shrike  that  was 
impaling  a  shrew-mouse  upon  a  thorn  in  a 
neighboring  tree,  and  which  I  was  watching. 
Failing  to  get  the  mouse,  the  owl  returned 
swiftly  to  his  cavity,  and  ever  since,  while 
going  that  way,  I  have  been  on  the  lookout 
for  him.  Dozens  of  teams  and  foot-passen- 
gers pass  him  late  in  the  day,  but  he  re- 
gards them  not,  nor  they  him.  When  I 
come  along  and  pause  to  salute  him,  he 
opens  his  eyes  a  little  wider,  and,  appearing 
to  recognize  me,  quickly  shrinks  and  fades 
into  the  background  of  his  door  in  a  very 
weird  and  curious  manner.  When  he  is  not 
at  his  outlook,  or  when  he  is,  it  requires  the 
best  powers  of  the  eye  to  decide  the  point, 
as  the  empty  cavity  itself  is  almost  an  exact 
image  of  him.  If  the  whole  thing  had  been 
carefully  studied,  it  could  not  have  answered 
its  purpose  better.  The  owl  stands  quite 
perpendicular,  presenting  a  front  of  light 
mottled  gray ;  the  eyes  are  closed  to  a  mere 
slit,  the  ear-feathers  depressed,  the  beak 
buried  in  the  plumage,  and  the  whole  atti- 
tude is  one  of  silent,  motionless  waiting  and 
observation.  If  a  mouse  should  be  seen 
crossing  the  highway,  or  scudding  over  any 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

exposed  part  of  the  snowy  surface  in  the 
twilight,  the  owl  would  doubtless  swoop 
down  upon  it.  I  think  the  owl  has  learned 
to  distinguish  me  from  the  rest  of  the  pass- 
ers-by; at  least,  when  I  stop  before  him, 
and  he  sees  himself  observed,  he  backs  down 
into  his  den,  as  I  have  said,  in  a  very  amus- 
ing manner.  Whether  bluebirds,  nuthatches, 
and  chickadees  —  birds  that  pass  the  night 
in  cavities  of  trees  —  ever  run  into  the 
clutches  of  the  dozing  owl,  I  should  be  glad 
to  know.  My  impression  is,  however,  that 
they  seek  out  smaller  cavities.  An  old 
willow  by  the  roadside  blew  down  one  sum- 
mer, and  a  decayed  branch  broke  open, 
revealing  a  brood  of  half -fledged  owls,  and 
many  feathers  and  quills  of  bluebirds,  orioles, 
and  other  songsters,  showing  plainly  enough 
why  all  birds  fear  and  berate  the  owl. 

The  English  house  sparrows,  which  are 
so  rapidly  increasing  among  us,  and  which 
must  add  greatly  to  the  food  supply  of  the 
owls  and  other  birds  of  prey,  seek  to  baffle 
their  enemies  by  roosting  in  the  densest 
evergreens  they  can  find,  in  the  arbor-vitae, 
and  in  hemlock  hedges.  Soft-winged  as 
the  owl  is,  he  cannot  steal  in  upon  such  a 
retreat  without  giving  them  warning. 
20 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

These  sparrows  are  becoming  about  the 
most  noticeable  of  my  winter  neighbors,  and 
a  troop  of  them  every  morning  watch  me 
put  out  the  hens'  feed,  and  soon  claim  their 
share.  I  rather  encouraged  them  in  their 
neighborliness,  till  one  day  I  discovered  the 
snow  under  a  favorite  plum-tree  where  they 
most  frequently  perched  covered  with  the 
scales  of  the  fruit-buds.  On  investigating, 
I  found  that  the  tree  had  been  nearly 
stripped  of  its  buds,  —  a  very  unneighborly 
act  on  the  part  of  the  sparrows,  considering, 
too,  all  the  cracked  corn  I  had  scattered  for 
them.  So  I  at  once  served  notice  on  them 
that  our  good  understanding  was  at  an  end. 
And  a  hint  is  as  good  as  a  kick  with  this 
bird.  The  stone  I  hurled  among  them,  and 
the  one  with  which  I  followed  them  up,  may 
have  been  taken  as  a  kick;  but  they  were 
only  a  hint  of  the  shot-gun  that  stood  ready 
in  the  corner.  The  sparrows  left  in  high 
dudgeon,  and  were  not  back  again  in  some 
days,  and  were  then  very  shy.  No  doubt 
the  time  is  near  at  hand  when  we  shall  have 
to  wage  serious  war  upon  these  sparrows, 
as  they  long  have  had  to  do  on  the  conti- 
nent of  Europe.  And  yet  it  will  be  hard 
to  kill  the  little  wretches,  the  only  Old 

21 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

World  bird  we  have.  When  I  take  down 
my  gun  to  shoot  them  I  shall  probably  re- 
member that  the  Psalmist  said,  "  I  watch, 
and  am  as  a  sparrow  alone  upon  the  house- 
top," and  maybe  the  recollection  will  cause 
me  to  stay  my  hand.  The  sparrows  have 
the  Old  World  hardiness  and  prolificness ; 
they  are  wise  and  tenacious  of  life,  and  we 
shall  find  it  by  and  by  no  small  matter  to 
keep  them  in  check.  Our  native  birds  are 
much  different,  less  prolific,  less  shrewd, 
less  aggressive  and  persistent,  less  quick- 
witted and  able  to  read  the  note  of  danger 
or  hostility,  —  in  short,  less  sophisticated. 
Most  of  our  birds  are  yet  essentially  wild, 
that  is,  little  changed  by  civilization.  In 
winter,  especially,  they  sweep  by  me  and 
around  me  in  flocks,  —  the  Canada  sparrow, 
the  snow  bunting,  the  shore  lark,  the  pine 
grosbeak,  the  redpoll,  the  cedar-bird,  — feed- 
ing upon  frozen  apples  in  the  orchard,  upon 
cedar-berries,  upon  maple-buds,  and  the 
berries  of  the  mountain-ash,  and  the  celtis, 
and  upon  the  seeds  of  the  weeds  that  rise 
above  the  snow  in  the  field,  or  upon  the  hay- 
seed dropped  where  the  cattle  have  been  fod- 
dered in  the  barnyard  or  about  the  distant 
stack ;  but  yet  taking  no  heed  of  man,  in  no 
22 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

way  changing  their  habits  so  as  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  his  presence  in  nature.  The  pine 
grosbeaks  will  come  in  numbers  upon  your 
porch  to  get  the  black  drupes  of  the  honey- 
suckle or  the  woodbine,  or  within  reach  of 
your  windows  to  get  the  berries  of  the  moun- 
tain-ash, but  they  know  you  not ;  they  look 
at  you  as  innocently  and  unconcernedly  as 
at  a  bear  or  moose  in  their  native  north,  and 
your  house  is  no  more  to  them  than  a  ledge 
of  rocks. 

The  only  ones  of  my  winter  neighbors 
that  actually  rap  at  my  door  are  the  nut- 
hatches and  woodpeckers,  and  these  do  not 
know  that  it  is  my  door.  My  retreat  is 
covered  with  the  bark  of  young  chestnut- 
trees,  and  the  birds,  I  suspect,  mistake  it 
for  a  huge  stump  that  ought  to  hold  fat 
grubs  (there  is  not  even  a  book-worm  inside 
of  it),  and  their  loud  rapping  often  makes 
me  think  I  have  a  caller  indeed.  I  place 
fragments  of  hickory-nuts  in  the  interstices 
of  the  bark,  and  thus  attract  the  nuthatches  ; 
a  bone  upon  my  window-sill  attracts  both 
nuthatches  and  the  downy  woodpecker. 
They  peep  in  curiously  through  the  window 
upon  me,  pecking  away  at  my  bone,  too  often 
a  very  poor  one.  A  bone  nailed  to  a  tree 
23 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

a  few  feet  in  front  of  the  window  attracts 
crows  as  well  as  lesser  birds.  Even  the 
slate-colored  snowbird,  a  seed-eater,  comes 
and  nibbles  it  occasionally. 

The  bird  that  seems  to  consider  he  has 
the  best  right  to  the  bone  both  upon  the 
tree  and  upon  the  sill  is  the  downy  wood- 
pecker, my  favorite  neighbor  among  the 
winter  birds,  to  whom  I  will  mainly  devote 
the  remainder  of  this  chapter.  His  retreat 
is  but  a  few  paces  from  my  own,  in  the  de- 
cayed limb  of  an  apple-tree  which  he  exca- 
vated several  autumns  ago.  I  say  "he" 
because  the  red  plume  on  the  top  of  his 
head  proclaims  the  sex.  It  seems  not  to 
be  generally  known  to  our  writers  upon 
ornithology  that  certain  of  our  woodpeckers 
—  probably  all  the  winter  residents  —  each 
fall  excavate  a  limb  or  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
in  which  to  pass  the  winter,  and  that  the 
cavity  is  abandoned  in  the  spring,  probably 
for  a  new  one  in  which  nidification  takes 
place.  So  far  as  I  have  observed,  these 
cavities  are  drilled  out  only  by  the  males. 
Where  the  females  take  up  their  quarters  I 
am  not  so  well  informed,  though  I  suspect 
that  they  use  the  abandoned  holes  of  the 
males  of  the  previous  year. 
24 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

The  particular  woodpecker  to  which  I 
refer  drilled  his  f)rst  hole  in  my  apple-tree 
one  fall  four  or  five  years  ago.  This  he  oc- 
cupied till  the  following  spring,  when  he 
abandoned  it.  The  next  fall  he  began  a 
hole  in  an  adjoining  limb,  later  than  before, 
and  when  it  was  about  half  completed  a 
female  took  possession  of  his  old  quarters. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  this  seemed  to  en- 
rage the  male  very  much,  and  he  persecuted 
the  poor  bird  whenever  she  appeared  upon 
the  scene.  He  would  fly  at  her  spitefully 
and  drive  her  off.  One  chilly  November 
morning,  as  I  passed  under  the  tree,  I 
heard  the  hammer  of  the  little  architect  in 
his  cavity,  and  at  the  same  time  saw  the 
persecuted  female  sitting  at  the  entrance 
of  the  other  hole  as  if  she  would  fain  come 
out.  She  was  actually  shivering,  probably 
from  both  fear  and  cold.  I  understood  the 
situation  at  a  glance ;  the  bird  was  afraid 
to  come  forth  and  brave  the  anger  of  the 
male.  Not  till  I  had  rapped  smartly  upon 
the  ^limb  with  my  stick  did  she  come  out 
and  attempt  to  escape ;  but  she  had  not 
gone  ten  feet  from  the  tree  before  the  male 
was  in  hot  pursuit,  and  in  a  few  moments 
had  driven  her  back  to  the  same  tree,  where 
2S 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

she  tried  to  avoid  him  among  the  branches. 
A  few  days  after,  he  rid  himself  of  his  un- 
welcome neighbor  in  the  following  ingenious 
manner :  he  fairly  scuttled  the  other  cavity  ; 
he  drilled  a  hole  into  the  bottom  of  it  that 
let  in  the  light  and  the  cold,  and  I  saw  the 
female  there  no  more.  I  did  not  see  him 
in  the  act  of  rendering  this  tenement  unin- 
habitable ;  but  one  morning,  behold  it  was 
punctured  at  the  bottom,  and  the  circum- 
stances all  seemed  to  point  to  him  as  the 
author  of  it.  There  is  probably  no  gallan- 
try among  the  birds  except  at  the  mating 
season.  I  have  frequently  seen  the  male 
woodpecker  drive  the  female  away  from  the 
bone  upon  the  tree.  When  she  hopped 
around  to  the  other  end  and  timidly  nibbled 
it,  he  would  presently  dart  spitefully  at  her. 
She  would  then  take  up  her  position  in  his 
rear  and  wait  till  he  had  finished  his  meal. 
The  position  of  the  female  among  the  birds 
is  very  much  the  same  as  that  of  woman 
among  savage  tribes.  Most  of  the  drudgery 
of  life  falls  upon  her,  and  the  leavings  of 
the  males  are  often  her  lot. 

My  bird  is  a  genuine  little  savage,  doubt- 
less, but  I  value  him  as  a  neighbor.     It  is 
a  satisfaction  during  the  cold  or  stormy 
26 


WINTER    AT    RIVERBY  ON 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

winter  nights  to  know  he  is  warm  and  cosy 
there  in  his  retreat.  When  the  day  is  bad 
and  unfit  to  be  abroad  in,  he  is  there  too. 
When  I  wish  to  know  if  he  is  at  home,  I 
go  and  rap  upon  his  tree,  and,  if  he  is  not 
too  lazy  or  indifferent,  after  some  delay  he 
shows  his  head  in  his  round  doorway  about 
ten  feet  above,  and  looks  down  inquiringly 
upon  me,  —  sometimes  latterly  I  think  half 
resentfully,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  would 
thank  you  not  to  disturb  me  so  often." 
After  sundown,  he  will  not  put  his  head 
out  any  more  when  I  call,  but  as  I  step 
away  I  can  get  a  glimpse  of  him  inside  look- 
ing cold  and  reserved.  He  is  a  late  riser, 
especially  if  it  is  a  cold  or  disagreeable 
morning,  in  this  respect  being  like  the  barn 
fowls ;  it  is  sometimes  near  nine  o'clock 
before  I  see  him  leave  his  tree.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  comes  home  early,  being  in, 
if  the  day  is  unpleasant,  by  four  p.  M.  He 
lives  all  alone  ;  in  this  respect  I  do  not  com- 
mend his  example.  Where  his  mate  is,  I 
should  like  to  know. 

I   have  discovered  several  other  wood- 
peckers in  adjoining  orchards,  each  of  which 
has  a  like  home,  and  leads  a  like  solitary 
life.     One  of  them  has  excavated  a  dry 
27 


A   YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

limb  within  easy  reach  of  my  hand,  doing 
the  work  also  in  September.  But  the  choice 
of  tree  was  not  a  good  one ;  the  limb  was 
too  much  decayed,  and  the  workman  had 
made  the  cavity  too  large  ;  a  chip  had  come 
out,  making  a  hole  in  the  outer  wall.  Then 
he  went  a  few  inches  down  the  limb  and  be- 
gan again,  and  excavated  a  large,  commodi- 
ous chamber,  but  had  again  come  too  near 
the  surface ;  scarcely  more  than  the  bark 
protected  him  in  one  place,  and  the  limb 
was  very  much  weakened.  Then  he  made 
another  attempt  still  farther  down  the  limb, 
and  drilled  in  an  inch  or  two,  but  seemed 
to  change  his  mind ;  the  work  stopped,  and 
I  concluded  the  bird  had  wisely  abandoned 
the  tree.  Passing  there  one  cold,  rainy 
November  day,  I  thrust  in  my  two  fingers 
and  was  surprised  to  feel  something  soft 
and  warm  ;  as  I  drew  away  my  hand  the 
bird  came  out,  apparently  no  more  surprised 
than  I  was.  It  had  decided,  then,  to  make 
its  home  in  the  old  limb  ;  a  decision  it  had 
occasion  to  regret,  for  not  long  after,  on  a 
stormy  night,  the  branch  gave  way  and  fell 
to  the  ground  :  — 

"  When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  will  fall, 
And  down  will  come  baby,  cradle  and  all." 
28 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

Such  a  cavity  makes  a  snug,  warm  home, 
and  when  the  entrance  is  on  the  under  side 
of  the  limb,  as  is  usual,  the  wind  and  snow 
cannot  reach  the  occupant.  Late  in  De- 
cember, while  crossing  a  high,  wooded 
mountain,  lured  by  the  music  of  fox-hounds, 
I  discovered  fresh  yellow  chips  strewing 
the  new-fallen  snow,  and  at  once  thought 
of  my  woodpeckers.  On  looking  around  I 
saw  where  one  had  been  at  work  excavating 
a  lodge  in  a  small  yellow  birch.  The  orifice 
was  about  fifteen  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
appeared  as  round  as  if  struck  with  a  com- 
pass. It  was  on  the  east  side  of  the  tree, 
so  as  to  avoid  the  prevailing  west  and  north- 
west winds.  As  it  was  nearly  two  inches 
in  diameter,  it  could  not  have  been  the 
work  of  the  downy,  but  must  have  been 
that  of  the  hairy,  or  else  the  yellow-bellied 
woodpecker.  His  home  had  probably  been 
wrecked  by  some  violent  wind,  and  he  was 
thus  providing  himself  another.  In  digging 
out  these  retreats  the  woodpeckers  prefer 
a  dry,  brittle  trunk,  not  too  soft.  They  go 
in  horizontally  to  the  centre  and  then  turn 
downward,  enlarging  the  tunnel  as  they  go, 
till  when  finished  it  is  the  shape  of  a  long, 
deep  pear. 

29 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

Another  trait  our  woodpeckers  have  that 
endears  them  to  me,  and  that  has  never 
been  pointedly  noticed  by  our  ornithologists, 
is  their  habit  of  drumming  in  the  spring. 
They  are  songless  birds,  and  yet  all  are 
musicians;  they  make  the  dry  limbs  elo- 
quent of  the  coming  change.  Did  you 
think  that  loud,  sonorous  hammering  which 
proceeded  from  the  orchard  or  from  the 
near  woods  on  that  still  March  or  April 
morning  was  only  some  bird  getting  its 
breakfast  ?  It  is  downy,  but  he  is  not  rap- 
ping at  the  door  of  a  grub ;  he  is  rapping 
at  the  door  of  spring,  and  the  dry  limb 
thrills  beneath  the  ardor  of  his  blows.  Or, 
later  in  the  season,  in  the  dense  forest  or 
by  some  remote  mountain  lake,  does  that 
measured  rhythmic  beat  that  breaks  upon 
the  silence,  first  three  strokes  following 
each  other  rapidly,  succeeded  by  two  louder 
ones  with  longer  intervals  between  them, 
and  that  has  an  effect  upon  the  alert  ear 
as  if  the  solitude  itself  had  at  last  found 
a  voice, — does  that  suggest  anything  less 
than  a  deliberate  musical  performance  ?  In 
fact,  our  woodpeckers  are  just  as  character- 
istically drummers  as  is  the  ruffed  grouse, 
and  they  have  their  particular  limbs  and 
30 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

stubs  to  which  they  resort  for  that  purpose. 
Their  need  of  expression  is  apparently  just 
as  great  as  that  of  the  song-birds,  and  it  is 
not  surprising  that  they  should  have  found 
out  that  there  is  music  in  a  dry,  seasoned 
limb  which  can  be  evoked  beneath  their 
beaks. 

A  few  seasons  ago,  a  downy  woodpecker, 
probably  the  individual  one  who  is  now  my 
winter  neighbor,  began  to  drum  early  in 
March  in  a  partly  decayed  apple-tree  that 
stands  in  the  edge  of  a  narrow  strip  of 
woodland  near  me.  When  the  morning 
was  still  and  mild  I  would  often  hear  him 
through  my  window  before  I  was  up,  or  by 
half -past  six  o'clock,  and  he  would  keep  it 
up  pretty  briskly  till  nine  or  ten  o'clock,  in 
this  respect  resembling  the  grouse,  which 
do  most  of  their  drumming  in  the  forenoon. 
His  drum  was  the  stub  of  a  dry  limb  about 
the  size  of  one's  wrist.  The  heart  was  de- 
cayed and  gone,  but  the  outer  shell  was 
hard  and  resonant.  The  bird  would  keep 
his  position  there  for  an  hour  at  a  time. 
Between  his  drummings  he  would  preen 
his  plumage  and  listen  as  if  for  the  response 
of  the  female,  or  for  the  drum  of  some 
rival.  How  swift  his  head  would  go  when 


A   YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

he  was  delivering  his  blows  upon  the  limb  ! 
His  beak  wore  the  surface  perceptibly. 
When  he  wished  to  change  the  key,  which 
was  quite  often,  he  would  shift  his  position 
an  inch  or  two  to  a  knot  which  gave  out 
a  higher,  shriller  note.  When  I  climbed 
up  to  examine  his  drum  he  was  much  dis- 
turbed. I  did  not  know  he  was  in  the 
vicinity,  but  it  seems  he  saw  me  from  a 
near  tree,  and  came  in  haste  to  the  neigh- 
boring branches,  and  with  spread  plumage 
and  a  sharp  note  demanded  plainly  enough 
what  my  business  was  with  his  drum.  I 
was  invading  his  privacy,  desecrating  his 
shrine,  and  the  bird  was  much  put  out. 
After  some  weeks  the  female  appeared ; 
he  had  literally  drummed  up  a  mate ;  his 
urgent  and  oft-repeated  advertisement  was 
answered.  Still  the  drumming  did  not 
cease,  but  was  quite  as  fervent  as  before. 
If  a  mate  could  be  won  by  drumming,  she 
could  be  kept  and  entertained  by  more 
drumming ;  courtship  should  not  end  with 
marriage.  If  the  bird  felt  musical  before, 
of  course  he  felt  much  more  so  now.  Be- 
sides that,  the  gentle  deities  needed  propi- 
tiating in  behalf  of  the  nest  and  young  as 
well  as  in  behalf  of  the  mate.  After  a 
32 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

time  a  second  female  came,  when  there 
was  war  between  the  two.  I  did  not  see 
them  come  to  blows,  but  I  saw  one  female 
pursuing  the  other  about  the  place,  and 
giving  her  no  rest  for  several  days.  She 
was  evidently  trying  to  run  her  out  of  the 
neighborhood.  Now  and  then,  she,  too, 
would  drum  briefly,  as  if  sending  a  triumph- 
ant message  to  her  mate. 

The  woodpeckers  do  not  each  have  a 
particular  dry  limb  to  which  they  resort  at 
all  times  to  drum,  like  the  one  I  have  de- 
scribed. The  woods  are  full  of  suitable 
branches,  and  they  drum  more  or  less  here 
and  there  as  they  are  in  quest  of  food ;  yet 
I  am  convinced  each  one  has  its  favorite 
spot,  like  the  grouse,  to  which  it  resorts 
especially  in  the  morning.  The  sugar- 
maker  in  the  maple-woods  may  notice  that 
this  sound  proceeds  from  the  same  tree  or 
trees  about  his  camp  with  great  regularity. 
A  woodpecker  in  my  vicinity  has  drummed 
for  two  seasons  on  a  telegraph  pole,  and  he 
makes  the  wires  and  glass  insulators  ring. 
Another  drums  on  a  thin  board  on  the  end 
of  a  long  grape-arbor,  and  on  still  mornings 
can  be  heard  a  long  distance. 

A  friend  of  mine  in  a  Southern  city  tells 
33 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

me  of  a  red-headed  woodpecker  that  drums 
upon  a  lightning-rod  on  his  neighbor's  house. 
Nearly  every  clear,  still  morning  at  certain 
seasons,  he  says,  this  musical  rapping  may 
be  heard.  "  He  alternates  his  tapping  with 
his  stridulous  call,  and  the  effect  on  a  cool, 
autumn-like  morning  is  very  pleasing." 

The  high-hole  appears  to  drum  more  pro- 
miscuously than  does  downy.  He  utters 
his  long,  loud  spring  call,  whick — whick  — 
which  —  wkicky  and  then  begins  to  rap  with 
his  beak  upon  his  perch  before  the  last  note 
has  reached  your  ear.  I  have  seen  him  drum 
sitting  upon  the  ridge  of  the  barn.  The  log- 
cock,  or  pileated  woodpecker,  the  largest 
and  wildest  of  our  Northern  species,  I  have 
never  heard  drum.  His  blows  should  wake 
the  echoes. 

When  the  woodpecker  is  searching  for 
food,  or  laying  siege  to  some  hidden  grub, 
the  sound  of  his  hammer  is  dead  or  muffled, 
and  is  heard  but  a  few  yards.  It  is  only 
upon  dry,  seasoned  timber,  freed  of  its  bark, 
that  he  beats  his  reveille  to  spring  and  wooes 
his  mate. 

Wilson  was  evidently  familiar  with  this 
vernal  drumming  of  the  woodpeckers,  but 
quite  misinterprets  it.  Speaking  of  the  red- 
34 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

bellied  species,  he  says :  "  It  rattles  like  the 
rest  of  the  tribe  on  the  dead  limbs,  and  with 
such  violence  as  to  be  heard  in  still  weather 
more  than  half  a  mile  off;  and  listens  to 
hear  the  insect  it  has  alarmed.'*  He  listens 
rather  to  hear  the  drum  of  his  rival,  or  the 
brief  and  coy  response  of  the  female ;  for 
there  are  no  insects  in  these  dry  limbs. 

On  one  occasion  I  saw  downy  at  his  drum 
when  a  female  flew  quickly  through  the  tree 
and  alighted  a  few  yards  beyond  him.  He 
paused  instantly,  and  kept  his  place  appar- 
ently without  moving  a  muscle.  The  fe- 
male, I  took  it,  had  answered  his  advertise- 
ment. She  flitted  about  from  limb  to  limb 
(the  female  may  be  known  by  the  absence 
of  the  crimson  spot  on  the  back  of  the  head), 
apparently  full  of  business  of  her  own,  and 
now  and  then  would  drum  in  a  shy,  tenta- 
tive manner.  The  male  watched  her  a  few 
moments,  and,  convinced  perhaps  that  she 
meant  business,  struck  up  his  liveliest  tune, 
then  listened  for  her  response.  As  it  came 
back  timidly  but  promptly,  he  left  his  perch 
and  sought  a  nearer  acquaintance  with  the 
prudent  female.  Whether  or  not  a  match 
grew  out  of  this  little  flirtation  I  cannot  say. 

Our  smaller  woodpeckers  are  sometimes 
35 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

accused  of  injuring  the  apple  and  other  fruit 
trees,  but  the  depredator  is  probably  the 
larger  and  rarer  yellow-bellied  species.  One 
autumn  I  caught  one  of  these  fellows  in  the 
act  of  sinking  long  rows  of  his  little  wells  in 
the  limb  of  an  apple-tree.  There  were  series 
of  rings  of  them,  one  above  another,  quite 
around  the  stem,  some  of  them  the  third 
of  an  inch  across.  They  are  evidently  made 
to  get  at  the  tender,  juicy  bark,  or  cambium 
layer,  next  to  the  hard  wood  of  the  tree. 
The  health  and  vitality  of  the  branch  are  so 
seriously  impaired  by  them  that  it  often  dies. 
In  the  following  winter  the  same  bird 
(probably)  tapped  a  maple-tree  in  front  of 
my  window  in  fifty-six  places ;  and  when  the 
day  was  sunny,  and  the  sap  oozed  out,  he 
spent  most  of  his  time  there.  He  knew  the 
good  sap-days,  and  was  on  hand  promptly 
for  his  tipple  ;  cold  and  cloudy  days  he  did 
not  appear.  He  knew  which  side  of  the 
tree  to  tap,  too,  and  avoided  the  sunless 
northern  exposure.  When  one  series  of 
well-holes  failed  to  supply  him,  he  would 
sink  another,  drilling  through  the  bark  with 
great  ease  and  quickness.  Then,  when  the 
day  was  warm,  and  the  sap  ran  freely,  he 
would  have  a  regular  sugar-maple  debauch, 
36 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

sitting  there  by  his  wells  hour  after  hour, 
and  as  fast  as  they  became  rilled  sipping  out 
the  sap.  This  he  did  in  a  gentle,  caressing 
manner  that  was  very  suggestive.  He  made 
a  row  of  wells  near  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and 
other  rows  higher  up,  and  he  would  hop  up 
and  down  the  trunk  as  these  became  filled. 
He  would  hop  down  the  tree  backward  with 
the  utmost  ease,  throwing  his  tail  outward 
and  his  head  inward  at  each  hop.  When  the 
wells  would  freeze  up  or  his  thirst  become 
slaked,  he  would  ruffle  his  feathers,  draw 
himself  together,  and  sit  and  doze  in  the 
sun  on  the  side  of  the  tree.  He  passed 
the  night  in  a  hole  in  an  apple-tree  not  far 
off.  He  was  evidently  a  young  bird,  not  yet 
having  the  plumage  of  the  mature  male  or 
female,  and  yet  he  knew  which  tree  to  tap 
and  where  to  tap  it.  I  saw  where  he  had 
bored  several  maples  in  the  vicinity,  but  no 
oaks  or  chestnuts.  I  nailed  up  a  fat  bone 
near  his  sap-works :  the  downy  woodpecker 
came  there  several  times  a  day  to  dine ;  the 
nuthatch  came,  and  even  the  snowbird  took 
a  taste  occasionally;  but  this  sapsucker 
never  touched  it — the  sweet  of  the  tree 
sufficed  for  him.  This  woodpecker  does 
not  breed  or  abound  in  my  vicinity;  only 
37 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

stray  specimens  are  now  and  then  to  be  met 
with  in  the  colder  months,  As  spring  ap- 
proached, the  one  I  refer  to  took  his  depart- 
ure. 

I  must  bring  my  account  of  my  neighbor 
in  the  tree  down  to  the  latest  date ;  so  after 
the  lapse  of  a  year  I  add  the  following  notes. 
The  last  day  of  February  was  bright  and 
spring-like.  I  heard  the  first  sparrow  sing 
that  morning  and  the  first  screaming  of  the 
circling  hawks,  and  about  seven  o'clock  the 
first  drumming  of  my  little  friend.  His 
first  notes  were  uncertain  and  at  long  inter- 
vals, but  by  and  by  he  warmed  up  and  beat 
a  lively  tattoo.  As  the  season  advanced  he 
ceased  to  lodge  in  his  old  quarters.  I  would 
rap  and  find  nobody  at  home.  Was  he  out 
on  a  lark,  I  said,  the  spring  fever  working 
in  his  blood  ?  After  a  time  his  drumming 
grew  less  frequent,  and  finally,  in  the  middle 
of  April,  ceased  entirely.  Had  some  acci- 
dent befallen  him,  or  had  he  wandered  away 
to  fresh  fields,  following  some  siren  of  his 
species  ?  Probably  the  latter.  Another 
bird  that  I  had  under  observation  also  left 
his  winter-quarters  in  the  spring.  This, 
then,  appears  to  be  the  usual  custom.  The 
wrens  and  the  nuthatches  and  chickadees 
38 


WMW      ,-; 


WOOD    FOR    THE    STUDY    FIRE 


WINTER  NEIGHBORS 

succeed  to  these  abandoned  cavities,  and 
often  have  amusing  disputes  over  them. 
The  nuthatches  frequently  pass  the  night  in 
them,  and  the  wrens  and  chickadees  nest  hi 
them.  I  have  further  observed  that  in  ex- 
cavating a  cavity  for  a  nest  the  downy  wood- 
pecker makes  the  entrance  smaller  than 
when  he  is  excavating  his  winter-quarters. 
This  is  doubtless  for  the  greater  safety  of 
the  young  birds. 

The  next  fall  the  downy  excavated  another 
limb  in  the  old  apple-tree,  but  had  not  got 
his  retreat  quite  finished  when  the  large 
hairy  woodpecker  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
I  heard  his  loud  click,  click,  early  one  frosty 
November  morning.  There  was  something 
impatient  and  angry  in  the  tone  that  arrested 
my  attention.  I  saw  the  bird  fly  to  the  tree 
where  downy  had  been  at  work,  and  fall 
with  great  violence  upon  the  entrance  to  his 
cavity.  The  bark  and  the  chips  flew  beneath 
his  vigorous  blows,  and,  before  I  fairly  woke 
up  to  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  completely 
demolished  the  neat,  round  doorway  of 
downy.  He  had  made  a  large,  ragged  open- 
ing, large  enough  for  himself  to  enter.  I 
drove  him  away  and  my  favorite  came  back, 
but  only  to  survey  the  ruins  of  his  castle  for 
39 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

a  moment  and  then  go  away.  He  lingered 
about  for  a  day  or  two  and  then  disappeared. 
The  big  hairy  usurper  passed  a  night  in  the 
cavity ;  but  on  being  hustled  out  of  it  the 
next  night  by  me,  he  also  left,  but  not  till 
he  had  demolished  the  entrance  to  a  cavity 
in  a  neighboring  tree  where  downy  and  his 
mate  had  reared  their  brood  that  summer, 
and  where  I  had  hoped  the  female  would 
pass  the  winter. 

40 


Ill 

A    SPRING    RELISH 

IT  is  a  little  remarkable  how  regularly 
severe  and  mild  winters  alternate  in  our 
climate  for  a  series  of  years,  - —  a  feminine 
and  a  masculine  one,  as  it  were,  almost 
invariably  following  each  other.  Every 
other  season  now  for  ten  years  the  ice- 
gatherers  on  the  river  have  been  disap- 
pointed of  a  full  harvest,  and  every  other 
season  the  ice  has  formed  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  inches  thick.  From  1873  to  1884 
there  was  no  marked  exception  to  this  rule. 
But  in  the  last-named  year,  when,  according 
to  the  succession,  a  mild  winter  was  due, 
the  breed  seemed  to  have  got  crossed,  and 
a  sort  of  mongrel  winter  was  the  result ; 
neither  mild  nor  severe,  but  very  stormy, 
capricious,  and  disagreeable,  with  ice  a  foot 
thick  on  the  river.  The  winter  which  fol- 
lowed, that  of  1884-85,  though  slow  and 
hesitating  at  first,  fully  proved  itself  as  be- 
longing to  the  masculine  order.  The  pres- 
ent winter  of  1885-86  shows  a  marked 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

return  to  the  type  of  two  years  ago  —  less 
hail  and  snow,  but  by  no  means  the  mild 
season  that  was  due.  By  and  by,  probably, 
the  meteorological  influences  will  get  back 
into  the  old  ruts  again,  and  we  shall  have 
once  more  the  regular  alternation  of  mild 
and  severe  winters.  During  very  open 
winters,  like  that  of  1879-80,  nature  in  my 
latitude,  eighty  miles  north  of  New  York, 
hardly  shuts  up  house  at  all.  That  season 
I  heard  a  little  piping  frog  on  the  7th  of 
December,  and  on  the  iSth  of  January,  in 
a  spring  run,  I  saw  the  common  bullfrog 
out  of  his  hibernaculum,  evidently  thinking 
it  was  spring.  A  copperhead  snake  was 
killed  here  about  the  same  date;  caterpil- 
lars did  not  seem  to  retire,  as  they  usually 
do,  but  came  forth  every  warm  day.  The 
note  of  the  bluebird  was  heard  nearly  every 
week  all  winter,  and  occasionally  that  of 
the  robin.  Such  open  winters  make  one 
fear  that  his  appetite  for  spring  will  be 
blunted  when  spring  really  does  come ;  but 
he  usually  finds  that  the  April  days  have 
the  old  relish.  April  is  that  part  of  the 
season  that  never  cloys  upon  the  palate. 
It  does  not  surfeit  one  with  good  things, 
but  provokes  and  stimulates  the  curiosity. 
42 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

One  is  on  the  alert ;  there  are  hints  and 
suggestions  on  every  hand.  Something 
has  just  passed,  or  stirred,  or  called,  or 
breathed,  in  the  open  air  or  in  the  ground 
about,  that  we  would  fain  know  more  of. 
May  is  sweet,  but  April  is  pungent.  There 
is  frost  enough  in  it  to  make  it  sharp,  and 
heat  enough  in  it  to  make  it  quick. 

In  my  walks  in  April,  I  am  on  the  look- 
out for  watercresses.  It  is  a  plant  that  has 
the  pungent  April  flavor.  In  many  parts 
of  the  country  the  watercress  seems  to  have 
become  completely  naturalized,  and  is  es- 
sentially a  wild  plant.  I  found  it  one  day 
in  a  springy  place,  on  the  top  of  a  high, 
wooded  mountain,  far  from  human  habita- 
tion. We  gathered  it  and  ate  it  with  our 
sandwiches.  Where  the  walker  cannot  find 
this  salad,  a  good  substitute  may  be  had 
in  our  native  spring  cress,  which  is  also  in 
perfection  in  April.  Crossing  a  wooded  hill 
in  the  regions  of  the  Catskills  on  the  1 5th 
of  the  month,  I  found  a  purple  variety  of 
the  plant,  on  the  margin  of  a  spring  that 
issued  from  beneath  a  ledge  of  rocks,  just 
ready  to  bloom.  I  gathered  the  little  white 
tubers,  that  are  clustered  like  miniature 
potatoes  at  the  root,  and  ate  them,  and 
43 


A  .YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

they  were  a  surprise  and  a  challenge  to  the 
tongue ;  on  the  table  they  would  well  fill 
the  place  of  mustard,  and  horseradish,  and 
other  appetizers.  When  I  was  a  schoolboy, 
we  used  to  gather,  in  a  piece  of  woods  on 
our  way  to  school,  the  roots  of  a  closely 
allied  species  to  eat  with  our  lunch.  But 
we  generally  ate  it  up  before  lunch-time. 
Our  name  for  this  plant  was  "  Crinkle-root." 
The  botanists  call  it  the  toothwort  (Den- 
taria),  also  pepper-root. 

From  what  fact  or  event  shall  one  really 
date  the  beginning  of  spring?  The  little 
piping  frogs  usually  furnish  a  good  starting- 
point.  One  spring  I  heard  the  first  note 
on  the  6th  of  April ;  the  next  on  the  27th 
of  February ;  but  in  reality  the  latter  sea- 
son was  only  two  weeks  earlier  than  the 
former.  When  the  bees  carry  in  their  first 
pollen,  one  would  think  spring  had  come ; 
yet  this  fact  does  not  always  correspond 
with  the  real  stage  of  the  season.  Before 
there  is  any  bloom  anywhere,  bees  will 
bring  pollen  to  the  hive.  Where  do  they 
get  it? 

I  have  seen  them  gathering  it  on  the 
fresh  sawdust  in  the  woodyard,  especially 
on  that  of  hickory  or  maple.  They  wallow 
44 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

amid  the  dust,  working  it  over  and  over, 
and  searching  it  like  diamond-hunters,  and 
after  a  time  their  baskets  are  filled  with  the 
precious  flour,  which  is  probably  only  a 
certain  part  of  the  wood,  doubtless  the  soft, 
nutritious  inner  bark. 

In  fact,  all  signs  and  phases  of  life  in  the 
early  season  are  very  capricious,  and  are 
earlier  or  later  just  as  some  local  or  ex- 
ceptional circumstance  favors  or  hinders. 
It  is  only  such  birds  as  arrive  after  about 
the  20th  of  April  that  are  at  all  "punc- 
tual" according  to  the  almanac.  I  have 
never  known  the  arrival  of  the  barn  swal- 
low to  vary  much  from  that  date  in  this 
latitude,  no  matter  how  early  or  late  the 
season  might  be.  Another  punctual  bird 
is  the  yellow  redpoll  warbler,  the  first  of 
his  class  that  appears.  Year  after  year, 
between  the  2Oth  and  the  2$th,  I  am  sure 
to  see  this  little  bird  about  my  place  for  a 
day  or  two  only,  now  on  the  ground,  now 
on  the  fences,  now  on  the  small  trees  and 
shrubs,  and  closely  examining  the  buds  or 
just-opening  leaves  of  the  apple-trees.  He 
is  a  small  olive-colored  bird,  with  a  dark- 
red  or  maroon-colored  patch  on  the  top  of 
his  head.  His  ordinary  note  is  a  smart 
45 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

"chirp."  His  movements  are  very  charac- 
teristic, especially  that  vertical,  oscillating 
movement  of  the  hind  part  of  his  body,  like 
that  of  the  wagtails.  There  are  many  birds 
that  do  not  come  here  till  May,  be  the 
season  never  so  early.  The  spring  of  1878 
was  very  forward,  and  on  the  27th  of  April 
I  made  this  entry  in  my  notebook:  "In 
nature  it  is  the  middle  of  May,  and,  judg- 
ing from  vegetation  alone,  one  would  expect 
to  find  many  of  the  later  birds,  as  the  oriole, 
the  wood  thrush,  the  kingbird,  the  catbird, 
the  tanager,  the  indigo-bird,  the  vireos,  and 
many  of  the  warblers,  but  they  have  not 
arrived.  The  May  birds,  it  seems,  will  not 
come  in  April,  no  matter  how  the  season 
favors." 

Some  birds  passing  north  in  the  spring 
are  provokingly  silent.  Every  April  I  see 
the  hermit  thrush  hopping  about  the  woods, 
and  in  case  of  a  sudden  snow-storm  seeking 
shelter  about  the  outbuildings  ;  but  I  never 
hear  even  a  fragment  of  his  wild,  silvery 
strain.  The  white-crowned  sparrow  also 
passes  in  silence.  I  see  the  bird  for  a  few 
days  about  the  same  date  each  year,  but  he 
will  not  reveal  to  me  his  song.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  congener,  the  white-throated 
46 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

sparrow,  is  decidedly  musical  in  passing, 
both  spring  and  fall.  His  sweet,  wavering 
whistle  is  at  times  quite  as  full  and  perfect 
as  when  heard  in  June  or  July  in  the  Cana- 
dian woods.  The  latter  bird  is  much  more 
numerous  than  the  white-crowned,  and  its 
stay  with  us  more  protracted,  which  may  in 
a  measure  account  for  the  greater  frequency 
of  its  song.  The  fox  sparrow,  who  passes 
earlier  (sometimes  in  March),  is  also  chary 
of  the  music  with  which  he  is  so  richly  en- 
dowed. It  is  not  every  season  that  I  hear 
him,  though  my  ear  is  on  the  alert  for  his 
strong,  finely-modulated  whistle. 

Nearly  all  the  warblers  sing  in  passing. 
I  hear  them  in  the  orchards,  in  the  groves, 
in  the  woods,  as  they  pause  to  feed  in 
their  northward  journey,  their  brief,  lisp- 
ing, shuffling,  insect-like  notes  requiring  to 
be  searched  for  by  the  ear,  as  their  forms 
by  the  eye.  But  the  ear  is  not  tasked  to 
identify  the  songs  of  the  kinglets,  as  they 
tarry  briefly  with  us  in  spring.  In  fact, 
there  is  generally  a  week  in  April  or  early 
May, — 

"  On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 
When  all  the  woods  stand  in  a  mist  of  green 
And  nothing  perfect,"  — 

47 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

during  which  the  piping,  voluble,  rapid, 
intricate,  and  delicious  warble  of  the  ruby- 
crowned  kinglet  is  the  most  noticeable 
strain  to  be  heard,  especially  among  the 
evergreens. 

I  notice  that  during  the  mating  season 
of  the  birds  the  rivalries  and  jealousies  are 
not  all  confined  to  the  males.  Indeed,  the 
most  spiteful  and  furious  battles,  as  among 
the  domestic  fowls,  are  frequently  between 
females.  I  have  seen  two  hen  robins  scratch 
and  pull  feathers  in  a  manner  that  con- 
trasted strongly  with  the  courtly  and  digni- 
fied sparring  usual  between  the  males.  One 
March  a  pair  of  bluebirds  decided  to  set  up 
housekeeping  in  the  trunk  of  an  old  apple- 
tree  near  my  house.  Not  long  after,  an 
unwedded  female  appeared,  and  probably 
tried  to  supplant  the  lawful  wife.  I  did  not 
see  what  arts  she  used,  but  I  saw  her  being 
very  roughly  handled  by  the  jealous  bride. 
The  battle  continued  nearly  all  day  about 
the  orchard  and  grounds,  and  was  a  battle 
at  very  close  quarters.  The  two  birds 
would  clinch  in  the  air  or  on  a  tree,  and  fall 
to  the  ground  with  beaks  and  claws  locked. 
The  male  followed  them  about,  and  warbled 
and  called,  but  whether  deprecatingly  or 
48 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

encouragingly,  I  could  not  tell.  Occasion- 
ally he  would  take  a  hand,  but  whether  to 
separate  them  or  whether  to  fan  the  flames, 
that  I  could  not  tell.  So  far  as  I  could  see, 
he  was  highly  amused,  and  culpably  indif- 
ferent to  the  issue  of  the  battle. 

The  English  spring  begins  much  earlier 
than  ours  in  New  England  and  New  York, 
yet  an  exceptionally  early  April  with  us 
must  be  nearly,  if  not  quite,  abreast  with 
April  as  it  usually  appears  in  England. 
The  blackthorn  sometimes  blooms  in  Brit- 
ain in  February,  but  the  swallow  does  not 
appear  till  about  the  2Oth  of  April,  nor  the 
anemone  bloom  ordinarily  till  that  date. 
The  nightingale  comes  about  the  same  time, 
and  the  cuckoo  follows  close.  Our  cuckoo 
does  not  come  till  near  June ;  but  the  water- 
thrush,  which  Audubon  thought  nearly 
equal  to  the  nightingale  as  a  songster 
(though  it  certainly  is  not),  I  have  known  to 
come  by  the  2ist.  I  have  seen  the  sweet 
English  violet,  escaped  from  the  garden, 
and  growing  wild  by  the  roadside,  in  bloom 
on  the  2  5th  of  March,  which  is  about  its 
date  of  flowering  at  home.  During  the 
same  season,  the  first  of  our  native  flowers 
to  appear  was  the  hepatica,  which  I  found 
49 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

on  April  4.  The  arbutus  and  the  dicentra 
appeared  on  the  roth,  and  the  coltsfoot  — 
which,  however,  is  an  importation  —  about 
the  same  time.  The  bloodroot,  claytonia, 
saxifrage,  and  anemone  were  in  bloom  on 
the  1 7th,  and  I  found  the  first  blue  violet 
and  the  great  spurred  violet  on  the  igth 
(saw  the  little  violet-colored  butterfly  dan- 
cing about  the  woods  the  same  day).  I 
plucked  my  first  dandelion  on  a  meadow 
slope  on  the  23d,  and  in  the  woods,  pro- 
tected by  a  high  ledge,  my  first  trillium. 
During  the  month  at  least  twenty  native 
shrubs  and  wild  flowers  bloomed  in  my 
vicinity,  which  is  an  unusual  showing  for 
April. 

There  are  many  things  left  for  May,  but 
nothing  fairer,  if  as  fair,  as  the  first  flower, 
the  hepatica.  I  find  I  have  never  admired 
this  little  firstling  half  enough.  When  at 
the  maturity  of  its  charms,  it  is  certainly  the 
gem  of  the  woods.  What  an  individuality 
it  has  !  No  two  clusters  alike ;  all  shades 
and  sizes ;  some  are  snow-white,  some  pale 
pink,  with  just  a  tinge  of  violet,  some  deep 
purple,  others  the  purest  blue,  others  blue 
touched  with  lilac.  A  solitary  blue-purple 
one,  fully  expanded  and  rising  over  the 
5° 


AT    THE    STUDY    DOOR 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

brown  leaves  or  the  green  moss,  its  cluster 
of  minute  anthers  showing  like  a  group  of 
pale  stars  on  its  little  firmament,  is  enough 
to  arrest  and  hold  the  dullest  eye.  Then, 
as  I  have  elsewhere  stated,  there  are  individ- 
ual hepaticas,  or  individual  families  among 
them,  that  are  sweet-scented.  The  gift 
seems  as  capricious  as  the  gift  of  genius  in 
families.  You  cannot  tell  which  the  fra- 
grant ones  are  till  you  try  them.  Some- 
times it  is  the  large  white  ones,  sometimes 
the  large  purple  ones,  sometimes  the  small 
pink  ones.  The  odor  is  faint,  and  recalls 
that  of  the  sweet  violets.  A  correspondent, 
who  seems  to  have  carefully  observed  these 
fragrant  hepaticas,  writes  me  that  this  gift 
of  odor  is  constant  in  the  same  plant ;  that 
the  plant  which  bears  sweet-scented  flowers 
this  year  will  bear  them  next. 

There  is  a  brief  period  in  our  spring  when 
I  like  more  than  at  any  other  time  to  drive 
along  the  country  roads,  or  even  to  be  shot 
along  by  steam  and  have  the  landscape  pre- 
sented to  me  like  a  map.  It  is  at  that 
period,  usually  late  in  April,  when  we  be- 
hold the  first  quickening  of  the  earth.  The 
waters  have  subsided,  the  roads  have  become 
dry,  the  sunshine  has  grown  strong  and  its 
51 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

warmth  has  penetrated  the  sod ;  there  is  a 
stir  of  preparation  about  the  farm  and  all 
through  the  country.  One  does  not  care 
to  see  things  very  closely :  his  interest  in 
nature  is  not  special  but  general.  The  earth 
is  coming  to  life  again.  All  the  genial  and 
more  fertile  places  in  the  landscape  are 
brought  out ;  the  earth  is  quickened  in  spots 
and  streaks ;  you  can  see  at  a  glance  where 
man  and  nature  have  dealt  the  most  kindly 
with  it.  The  warm,  moist  places,  the  places 
that  have  had  the  wash  of  some  building  or 
of  the  road,  or  have  been  subjected  to  some 
special  mellowing  influence,  how  quickly 
the  turf  awakens  there  and  shows  the  tender 
green !  See  what  the  landscape  would  be, 
how  much  earlier  spring  would  come  to  it, 
if  every  square  yard  of  it  was  alike  moist 
and  fertile.  As  the  later  snows  lay  in 
patches  here  and  there,  so  now  the  earliest 
verdure  is  irregularly  spread  over  the  land- 
scape, and  is  especially  marked  on  certain 
slopes,  as  if  it  had  blown  over  from  the  other 
side  and  lodged  there. 

A  little  earlier  the  homesteads  looked  cold 
and  naked;   the  old  farmhouse  was  bleak 
and  unattractive ;  now  Nature  seems  espe- 
cially to  smile  upon  it ;  her  genial  influences 
52 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

crowd  up  around  it;  the  turf  awakens  all 
about  as  if  in  the  spirit  of  friendliness.  See 
the  old  barn  on  the  meadow  slope;  the 
green  seems  to  have  oozed  out  from  it,  and 
to  have  flowed  slowly  down  the  hill;  at  a 
little  distance  it  is  lost  in  the  sere  stubble. 
One  can  see  where  every  spring  lies  buried 
about  the  fields  ;  its  influence  is  felt  at  the 
surface,  and  the  turf  is  early  quickened 
there.  Where  the  cattle  have  loved  to  lie 
and  ruminate  in  the  warm  summer  twilight, 
there  the  April  sunshine  loves  to  linger  too, 
till  the  sod  thrills  to  new  life. 

The  home,  the  domestic  feeling  in  nature, 
is  brought  out  and  enhanced  at  this  time ; 
what  man  has  done  tells,  especially  what  he 
has  done  well.  Our  interest  centres  in  the 
farmhouses,  and  in  the  influence  that  seems 
to  radiate  from  there.  The  older  the  home, 
the  more  genial  nature  looks  about  it.  The 
new  architectural  palace  of  the  rich  citizen, 
with  the  barns  and  outbuildings  concealed 
or  disguised  as  much  as  possible,  —  spring 
is  in  no  hurry  about  it ;  the  sweat  of  long 
years  of  honest  labor  has  not  yet  fattened 
the  soil  it  stands  upon. 

The  full  charm  of  this  April  landscape  is 
not  brought  out  till  the  afternoon.  It  seems 
S3 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

to  need  the  slanting  rays  of  the  evening 
sun  to  give  it  the  right  mellowness  and 
tenderness,  or  the  right  perspective.  It  is, 
perhaps,  a  little  too  bald  in  the  strong  white 
light  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  day;  but 
when  the  faint  four-o'clock  shadows  begin 
to  come  out,  and  we  look  through  the  green 
vistas  and  along  the  farm  lanes  toward  the 
west,  or  out  across  long  stretches  of  fields 
above  which  spring  seems  fairly  hovering, 
just  ready  to  alight,  and  note  the  teams 
slowly  plowing,  the  brightened  mould-board 
gleaming  in  the  sun  now  and  then,  —  it  is 
at  such  times  we  feel  its  fresh,  delicate 
attraction  the  most.  There  is  no  foliage  on 
the  trees  yet ;  only  here  and  there  the  red 
bloom  of  the  soft  maple,  illuminated  by  the 
declining  sun,  shows  vividly  against  the 
tender  green  of  a  slope  beyond,  or  a  willow, 
like  a  thin  veil,  stands  out  against  a  leaf- 
less wood.  Here  and  there  a  little  meadow 
watercourse  is  golden  with  marsh  marigolds, 
or  some  fence  border,  or  rocky  streak  of 
neglected  pasture  land,  is  thickly  starred 
with  the  white  flowers  of  the  bloodroot. 
The  eye  can  devour  a  succession  of  land- 
scapes at  such  a  time ;  there  is  nothing  that 
sates  or  entirely  fills  it,  but  every  spring 
54 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

token  stimulates  it,  and  makes  it  more  on 
the  alert. 

April,  too,  is  the  time  to  go  budding. 
A  swelling  bud  is  food  for  the  fancy,  and 
often  food  for  the  eye.  Some  buds  begin 
to  glow  as  they  begin  to  swell.  The  bud 
scales  change  color  and  become  a  delicate 
rose  pink.  I  note  this  especially  in  the 
European  maple.  The  bud  scales  flush  as 
if  the  effort  to  "keep  in"  brought  the 
blood  into  their  faces.  The  scales  of  the 
willow  do  not  flush,  but  shine  like  ebony, 
and  each  one  presses  like  a  hand  upon  the 
catkin  that  will  escape  from  beneath  it. 

When  spring  pushes  pretty  hard,  many 
buds  begin  to  sweat  as  well  as  to  glow; 
they  exude  a  brown,  fragrant,  gummy  sub- 
stance that  affords  the  honey-bee  her  first 
cement  and  hive  varnish.  The  hickory, 
the  horse-chestnut,  the  plane-tree,  the  pop- 
lars, are  all  coated  with  this  April  myrrh. 
That  of  certain  poplars,  like  the  Balm  of 
Gilead,  is  the  most  noticeable  and  fragrant, 
—  no  spring  incense  more  agreeable.  Its 
perfume  is  often  upon  the  April  breeze. 
I  pick  up  the  bud  scales  of  the  poplars 
along  the  road,  long  brown  scales  like  the 
beaks  of  birds,  and  they  leave  a  rich  gummy 
55 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

odor  in  my  hand  that  lasts  for  hours.  I 
frequently  detect  the  same  odor  about  my 
hives  when  the  bees  are  making  all  snug 
against  the  rains,  or  against  the  millers. 
When  used  by  the  bees,  we  call  it  propolis. 
Virgil  refers  to  it  as  a  "  glue  more  adhesive 
than  bird  -  lime  and  the  pitch  of  Phrygian 
Ida."  Pliny  says  it  is  extracted  from  the 
tears  of  the  elm,  the  willow,  and  the  reed. 
The  bees  often  have  serious  work  to  detach 
it  from  their  leg-baskets,  and  make  it  stick 
only  where  they  want  it  to. 

The  bud  scales  begin  to  drop  in  April, 
and  by  May  Day  the  scales  have  fallen 
from  the  eyes  of  every  branch  in  the  forest. 
In  most  cases  the  bud  has  an  inner  wrap- 
ping that  does  not  fall  so  soon.  In  the 
hickory  this  inner  wrapping  is  like  a  great 
livid  membrane,  an  inch  or  more  in  length, 
thick,  fleshy,  and  shining.  It  clasps  the 
tender  leaves  about  as  if  both  protecting 
and  nursing  them.  As  the  leaves  develop, 
these  membranous  wrappings  curl  back, 
and  finally  wither  and  fall.  In  the  plane- 
tree,  or  sycamore,  this  inner  wrapping  of 
the  bud  is  a  little  pelisse  of  soft  yellow  or 
tawny  fur.  When  it  is  cast  off,  it  is  the 
size  of  one's  thumb  nail,  and  suggests  the 

56 


A  SPRING  RELISH, 

delicate  skin  of  some  golden-haired  mole. 
The  young  sycamore  balls  lay  aside  their 
fur  wrappings  early  in  May.  The  flower 
tassels  of  the  European  maple,  too,  come 
packed  in  a  slightly  furry  covering.  The 
long  and  fleshy  inner  scales  that  enfold  the 
flowers  and  leaves  are  of  a  clear  olive  green, 
thinly  covered  with  silken  hairs  like  the 
young  of  some  animals.  Our  sugar  maple 
is  less  striking  and  beautiful  in  the  bud, 
but  the  flowers  are  more  graceful  and 
fringelike. 

Some  trees  have  no  bud  scales.  The 
sumac  presents  in  early  spring  a  mere  fuzzy 
knot,  from  which,  by  and  by,  there  emerges 
a  soft,  furry,  tawny-colored  kitten's  paw. 
I  know  of  nothing  in  vegetable  nature  that 
seems  so  really  to  be  born  as  the  ferns. 
They  emerge  from  the  ground  rolled  up, 
with  a  rudimentary  and  "  touch  -  me  -  not " 
look,  and  appear  to  need  a  maternal  tongue 
to  lick  them  into  shape.  The  sun  plays 
the  wet-nurse  to  them,  and  very  soon  they 
are  out  of  that  uncanny  covering  in  which 
they  come  swathed,  and  take  their  places 
with  other  green  things. 

The  bud  scales  strew  the  ground  in  spring 
as  the  leaves  do  in  the  fall,  though'  they  are 
57 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

so  small  that  we  hardly  notice  them.  All 
growth,  all  development,  is  a  casting  off, 
a  leaving  of  something  behind.  First  the 
bud  scales  drop,  then  the  flower  drops,  then 
the  fruit  drops,  then  the  leaf  drops.  The 
first  two  are  preparatory  and  stand  for 
spring;  the  last  two  are  the  crown  and 
stand  for  autumn.  Nearly  the  same  thing 
happens  with  the  seed  in  the  ground.  First 
the  shell,  or  outer  husk,  is  dropped  or  cast 
off ;  then  the  cotyledons,  those  nurse  leaves 
of  the  young  plant ;  then  the  fruit  falls,  and 
at  last  the  stalk  and  leaf.  A  bud  is  a  kind 
of  seed  planted  in  the  branch  instead  of 
in  the  soil.  It  bursts  and  grows  like  a 
germ.  In  the  absence  of  seeds  and  fruit, 
many  birds  and  animals  feed  upon  buds. 
The  pine  grosbeaks  from  the  north  are  the 
most  destructive  budders  that  come  among 
us.  The  snow  beneath  the  maples  they 
frequent  is  often  covered  with  bud  scales. 
The  ruffed  grouse  sometimes  buds  in  an 
orchard  near  the  woods,  and  thus  takes 
the  farmer's  apple  crop  a  year  in  advance. 
Grafting  is  but  a  planting  of  buds.  The 
seed  is  a  complete,  independent  bud ;  it 
has  the  nutriment  of  the  young  plant  with- 
in itself,  as  the  egg  holds  several  good 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

lunches  for  the  young  chick.  When  the 
spider,  or  the  wasp,  or  the  carpenter  bee, 
or  the  sand  hornet  lays  an  egg  in  a  cell, 
and  deposits  food  near  it  for  the  young 
when  hatched,  it  does  just  what  nature 
does  in  every  kernel  of  corn  or  wheat,  or 
bean,  or  nut.  Around  or  within  the  chit  or 
germ,  she  stores  food  for  the  young  plant. 
Upon  this  it  feeds  till  the  root  takes  hold 
of  the  soil  and  draws  sustenance  from 
thence.  The  bud  is  rooted  in  the  branch, 
and  draws  its  sustenance  from  the  milk 
of  the  pulpy  cambium  layer  beneath  the 
bark. 

Another  pleasant  feature  of  spring,  which 
I  have  not  mentioned,  is  the  full  streams. 
Riding  across  the  country  one  bright  day 
in  March,  I  saw  and  felt,  as  if  for  the  first 
time,  what  an  addition  to  the  satisfaction 
one  has  in  the  open  air  at  this  season  are 
the  clear,  full  watercourses.  They  come 
to  the  front,  as  it  were,  and  lure  and  hold 
the  eye.  There  are  no  weeds,  or  grasses, 
or  foliage  to  hide  them ;  they  are  full  to 
the  brim,  and  fuller ;  they  catch  and  reflect 
the  sunbeams,  and  are  about  the  only  ob- 
jects of  life  and  motion  in  nature.  The 
trees  stand  so  still,  the  fields  are  so  hushed 
59 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

and  naked,  the  mountains  so  exposed  and 
rigid,  that  the  eye  falls  upon  the  blue, 
sparkling,  undulating  watercourses  with  a 
peculiar  satisfaction.  By  and  by  the  grass 
and  trees  will  be  waving,  and  the  streams 
will  be  shrunken  and  hidden,  and  our  de- 
light will  not  be  in  them.  The  still  ponds 
and  lakelets  will  then  please  us  more. 

The  little  brown  brooks,  —  how  swift  and 
full  they  ran  !  One  fancied  something  glee- 
ful and  hilarious  in  them.  And  the  large 
creeks,  —  how  steadily  they  rolled  on,  trail- 
ing their  ample  skirts  along  the  edges  of 
the  fields  and  marshes,  and  leaving  ragged 
patches  of  water  here  and  there !  Many 
a  gentle  slope  spread,  as  it  were,  a  turfy 
apron  in  which  reposed  a  little  pool  or  lake- 
let. Many  a  stream  sent  little  detachments 
across  lots,  the  sparkling  water  seeming  to 
trip  lightly  over  the  unbroken  turf.  Here 
and  there  an  oak  or  an  elm  stood  knee-deep 
in  a  clear  pool,  as  if  rising  from  its  bath. 
It  gives  one  a  fresh,  genial  feeling  to  see 
such  a  bountiful  supply  of  pure,  running 
water.  One's  desires  and  affinities  go  out 
toward  the  full  streams.  How  many  a 
parched  place  they  reach  and  lap  in  one's 
memory !  How  many  a  vision  of  naked 
60 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

pebbles  and  sun-baked  banks  they  cover 
and  blot  out !  They  give  eyes  to  the 
fields ;  they  give  dimples  and  laughter ; 
they  give  light  and  motion.  Running  wa- 
ter! What  a  delightful  suggestion  the 
words  always  convey !  One's  thoughts  and 
sympathies  are  set  flowing  by  them ;  they 
unlock  a  fountain  of  pleasant  fancies  and 
associations  in  one's  memory ;  the  imagina- 
tion is  touched  and  refreshed. 

March  water  is  usually  clean,  sweet  wa- 
ter ;  every  brook  is  a  trout-brook,  a  moun- 
tain brook;  the  cold  and  the  snow  have 
supplied  the  condition  of  a  high  latitude ; 
no  stagnation,  no  corruption,  comes  down- 
stream now  as  on  a  summer  freshet.  Win- 
ter comes  down,  liquid  and  repentant.  In- 
deed, it  is  more  than  water  that  runs  then  : 
it  is  frost  subdued  ;  it  is  spring  triumphant. 
No  obsolete  watercourses  now.  The  larger 
creeks  seek  out  their  abandoned  beds,  re- 
turn to  the  haunts  of  their  youth,  and  lin- 
ger fondly  there.  The  muskrat  is  adrift, 
but  not  homeless ;  his  range  is  vastly  ex- 
tended, and  he  evidently  rejoices  in  full 
streams.  Through  the  tunnel  of  the  meadow- 
mouse  the  water  rushes  as  through  a  pipe  ; 
and  that  nest  of  his,  that  was  so  warm  and 
61 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

cosy  beneath  the  snowbank  in  the  meadow- 
bottom,  is  sodden  or  afloat.  But  meadow- 
mice  are  not  afraid  of  water.  On  various 
occasions  I  have  seen  them  swimming  about 
the  spring  pools  like  muskrats,  and,  when 
alarmed,  diving  beneath  the  water.  Add 
the  golden  willows  to  the  full  streams,  with 
the  red-shouldered  starlings  perched  amid 
their  branches,  sending  forth  their  strong, 
liquid,  gurgling  notes,  and  the  picture  is 
complete.  The  willow  branches  appear  to 
have  taken  on  a  deeper  yellow  in  spring; 
perhaps  it  is  the  effect  of  the  stronger  sun- 
shine, perhaps  it  is  the  effect  of  the  swift, 
vital  water  laving  their  roots.  The  epau- 
lettes of  the  starlings,  too,  are  brighter  than 
when  they  left  us  in  the  fall,  and  they  ap- 
pear to  get  brighter  daily  until  the  nest- 
ing begins.  The  males  arrive  many  days 
before  the  females,  and,  perched  along  the 
marshes  and  watercourses,  send  forth  their 
liquid,  musical  notes,  passing  the  call  from 
one  to  the  other,  as  if  to  guide  and  hurry 
their  mates  forward. 

The  noise  of  a  brook,  you  may  observe, 

is  by  no  means  in  proportion  to  its  volume. 

The  full  March  streams  make  far  less  noise 

relatively  to  their  size  than  the  shallower 

62 


A  WOODLAND    BROOK 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

streams  of  summer,  because  the  rocks  and 
pebbles  that  cause  the  sound  in  summer  are 
deeply  buried  beneath  the  current.  "  Still 
waters  run  deep "  is  not  so  true  as  "  deep 
waters  run  still."  I  rode  for  half  a  day 
along  the  upper  Delaware,  and  my  thoughts 
almost  unconsciously  faced  toward  the  full, 
clear  river.  Both  the  Delaware  and  the 
Susquehanna  have  a  starved,  impoverished 
look  in  summer,  —  unsightly  stretches  of 
naked  drift  and  bare,  bleaching  rocks.  But 
behold  them  in  March,  after  the  frost  has 
turned  over  to  them  the  moisture  it  has  held 
back  and  stored  up  as  the  primitive  forests 
used  to  hold  the  summer  rains.  Then  they 
have  an  easy,  ample,  triumphant  look,  that 
is  a  feast  to  the  eye.  A  plump,  well-fed 
stream  is  as  satisfying  to  behold  as  a  well- 
fed  animal  or  a  thrifty  tree.  One  source  of 
charm  in  the  English  landscape  is  the  full, 
placid  stream  the  season  through  ;  no  desic- 
cated watercourses  will  you  see  there,  nor 
any  feeble,  decrepit  brooks,  hardly  able  to 
get  over  the  ground. 

This  condition  of  our  streams  and  rivers 
in  spring  is  evidently  but  a  faint  reminis- 
cence  of  their  condition  during  what  we 
may  call    the   geological   springtime,   the 
63 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

March  or  April  of  the  earth's  history,  when 
the  annual  rainfall  appears  to  have  been 
vastly  greater  than  at  present,  and  when 
the  watercourses  were  consequently  vastly 
larger  and  fuller.  In  pleistocene  days  the 
earth's  climate  was  evidently  much  damper 
than  at  present.  It  was  the  rainiest  of 
March  weather.  On  no  other  theory  can 
we  account  for  the  enormous  erosion  of  the 
earth's  surface,  and  the  plowing  of  the  great 
valleys.  Professor  Newberry  finds  abundant 
evidence  that  the  Hudson  was,  in  former 
times,  a  much  larger  river  than  now.  Pro- 
fessor Zittel  reaches  the  same  conclusion 
concerning  the  Nile,  and  Humboldt  was  im- 
pressed with  the  same  fact  while  examin- 
ing the  Orinoco  and  the  tributaries  of  the 
Amazon.  All  these  rivers  appear  to  be 
but  mere  fractions  of  their  former  selves. 
The  same  is  true  of  all  the  great  lakes.  If 
not  Noah's  flood,  then  evidently  some  other 
very  wet  spell,  of  which  this  is  a  tradition, 
lies  far  behind  us.  Something  like  the 
drought  of  summer  is  beginning  upon  the 
earth  ;  the  great  floods  have  dried  up  ;  the 
rivers  are  slowly  shrinking ;  the  water  is 
penetrating  farther  and  farther  into  the 
64 


A  SPRING  RELISH 

cooling  crust  of  the  earth ;  and  what  was 
ample  to  drench  and  cover  its  surface,  even 
to  make  a  Noah's  flood,  will  be  but  a  drop 
in  the  bucket  to  the  vast  interior  of  the 
cooled  sphere. 

65 


IV 

APRIL 

IF  we  represent  the  winter  of  our  northern 
climate  by  a  rugged  snow-clad  mountain, 
and  summer  by  a  broad  fertile  plain,  then 
the  intermediate  belt,  the  hilly  and  breezy 
uplands,  will  stand  for  spring,  with  March 
reaching  well  up  into  the  region  of  the 
snows,  and  April  lapping  well  down  upon 
the  greening  fields  and  unloosened  currents, 
not  beyond  the  limits  of  winter's  sallying 
storms,  but  well  within  the  vernal  zone,  — 
within  the  reach  of  the  warm  breath  and 
subtle,  quickening  influences  of  the  plain 
below.  At  its  best,  April  is  the  tenderest 
of  tender  salads  made  crisp  by  ice  or  snow 
water.  Its  type  is  the  first  spear  of  grass. 
The  senses  —  sight,  hearing,  smell  —  are 
as  hungry  for  its  delicate  and  almost  spir- 
itual tokens  as  the  cattle  are  for  the  first 
bite  of  its  fields.  How  it  touches  one  and 
makes  him  Jjoth  glad  and  sad !  The  voices 
of  the  arriving  birds,  the  migrating  fowls, 
the  clouds  of  pigeons  sweeping  across  the 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

sky  or  filling  the  woods,  the  elfin  horn  of 
the  first  honey-bee  venturing  abroad  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  the  clear  piping  of  the 
little  frogs  in  the  marshes  at  sundown,  the 
camp-fire  in  the  sugar-bush,  the  smoke  seen 
afar  rising  over  the  trees,  the  tinge  of  green 
that  comes  so  suddenly  on  the  sunny  knolls 
and  slopes,  the  full  translucent  streams,  the 
waxing  and  warming  sun,  —  how  these 
things  and  others  like  them  are  noted  by 
the  eager  eye  and  ear !  April  is  my  natal 
month,  and  I  am  born  again  into  new  delight 
and  new  surprises  at  each  return  of  it.  Its 
name  has  an  indescribable  charm  to  me.  Its 
two  syllables  are  like  the  calls  of  the  first 
birds, — like  that  of  the  phoebe-bird,  or  of 
the  meadow-lark.  Its  very  snows  are  fertil- 
izing, and  are  called  the  poor  man's  manure. 
Then  its  odors !  I  am  thrilled  by  its  fresh 
and  indescribable  odors,  —  the  perfume  of 
the  bursting  sod,  of  the  quickened  roots  and 
rootlets,  of  the  mould  under  the  leaves,  of 
the  fresh  furrows.  No  other  month  has 
odors  like  it.  The  west  wind  the  other  day 
came  fraught  with  a  perfume  that  was  to 
the  sense  of  smell  what  a  wild  and  delicate 
strain  of  music  is  to  the  ear.  It  was  almost 
transcendental.  I  walked  across  the  hill 
68 


APRIL 

with  my  nose  in  the  air  taking  it  in.  It 
lasted  for  two  days.  I  imagined  it  came 
from  the  willows  of  a  distant  swamp,  whose 
catkins  were  affording  the  bees  their  first 
pollen  ;  or  did  it  come  from  much  farther,  — 
from  beyond  the  horizon,  the  accumulated 
breath  of  innumerable  farms  and  budding 
forests  ?  The  main  characteristic  of  these 
April  odors  is  their  uncloying  freshness. 
They  are  not  sweet,  they  are  oftener  bitter, 
they  are  penetrating  and  lyrical.  I  know 
well  the  odors  of  May  and  June,  of  the 
world  of  meadows  and  orchards  bursting  into 
bloom,  but  they  are  not  so  ineffable  and 
immaterial  and  so  stimulating  to  the  sense 
as  the  incense  of  April. 

The  season  of  which  I  speak  does  not 
correspond  with  the  April  of  the  almanac 
in  all  sections  of  our  vast  geography.  It  an- 
swers to  March  in  Virginia  and  Maryland, 
while  in  parts  of  New  York  and  New  Eng- 
land it  laps  well  over  into  May.  It  begins 
when  the  partridge  drums,  when  the  hyla 
pipes,  when  the  shad  start  up  the  rivers, 
when  the  grass  greens  in  the  spring  runs, 
and  it  ends  when  the  leaves  are  unfolding 
and  the  last  snowflake  dissolves  in  mid-air. 
It  may  be  the  first  of  May  before  the  first 
69 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

swallow  appears,  before  the  whippoorwill  is 
heard,  before  the  wood  thrush  sings  ;  but 
it  is  April  as  long  as  there  is  snow  upon  the 
mountains,  no  matter  what  the  almanac 
may  say.  Our  April  is,  in  fact,  a  kind  of 
Alpine  summer,  full  of  such  contrasts  and 
touches  of  wild,  delicate  beauty  as  no  other 
season  affords.  The  deluded  citizen  fancies 
there  is  nothing  enjoyable  in  the  country 
till  June,  and  so  misses  the  freshest,  tender- 
est  part.  It  is  as  if  one  should  miss  straw- 
berries and  begin  his  fruit-eating  with  melons 
and  peaches.  These  last  are  good,  —  su- 
premely so,  they  are  melting  and  luscious,  — 
but  nothing  so  thrills  and  penetrates  the 
taste,  and  wakes  up  and  teases  the  papillae 
of  the  tongue,  as  the  uncloying  strawberry. 
What  midsummer  sweetness  half  so  distract- 
ing as  its  brisk  sub-acid  flavor,  and  what 
splendor  of  full-leaved  June  can  stir  the 
blood  like  the  best  of  leafless  April  ? 

One  characteristic  April  feature,  and  one 
that  delights  me  very  much,  is  the  perfect 
emerald  of  the  spring  runs  while  the  fields 
are  yet  brown  and  sere,  —  strips  and  patches 
of  the  most  vivid  velvet  green  on  the  slopes 
and  in  the  valleys.  How  the  eye  grazes 
there,  and  is  filled  and  refreshed !  I  had 
70 


AN    APRIL    DAY 


APRIL 

forgotten  what  a  marked  feature  this  was 
until  I  recently  rode  in  an  open  wagon  for 
three  days  through  a  mountainous,  pastoral 
country,  remarkable  for  its  fine  springs. 
Those  delicious  green  patches  are  yet  in 
my  eye.  The  fountains  flowed  with  May. 
Where  no  springs  occurred,  there  were  hints 
and  suggestions  of  springs  about  the  fields 
and  by  the  roadside  in  the  freshened  grass,  — 
sometimes  overflowing  a  space  in  the  form 
of  an  actual  fountain.  The  water  did  not 
quite  get  to  the  surface  in  such  places,  but 
sent  its  influence. 

The  fields  of  wheat  and  rye,  too,  how 
they  stand  out  of  the  April  landscape,  — 
great  green  squares  on  a  field  of  brown  or 
gray! 

Among  April  sounds  there  is  none  more 
welcome  or  suggestive  to  me  than  the  voice 
of  the  little  frogs  piping  in  the  marshes. 
No  bird-note  can  surpass  it  as  a  spring 
token;  and  as  it  is  not  mentioned,  to  my 
knowledge,  by  the  poets  and  writers  of 
other  lands,  I  am  ready  to  believe  it  is  char- 
acteristic of  our  season  alone.  You  may 
be  sure  April  has  really  come  when  this 
little  amphibian  creeps  out  of  the  mud  and 
inflates  its  throat.  We  talk  of  the  bird  in- 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

flating  its  throat,  but  you  should  see  this 
tiny  minstrel  inflate  its  throat,  which  be- 
comes like  a  large  bubble,  and  suggests  a 
drummer-boy  with  his  drum  slung  very  high. 
In  this  drum,  or  by  the  aid  of  it,  the  sound 
is  produced.  Generally  the  note  is  very 
feeble  at  first,  as  if  the  frost  was  not  yet  all 
out  of  the  creature's  throat,  and  only  one 
voice  will  be  heard,  some  prophet  bolder 
than  all  the  rest,  or  upon  whom  the  quick- 
ening ray  of  spring  has  first  fallen.  And 
it  often  happens  that  he  is  stoned  for  his 
pains  by  the  yet  unpacified  element,  and  is 
compelled  literally  to  "  shut  up  "  beneath  a 
fall  of  snow  or  a  heavy  frost.  Soon,  how- 
ever, he  lifts  up  his  voice  again  with  more 
confidence,  and  is  joined  by  others  and  still 
others,  till  in  due  time,  say  toward  the  last 
of  the  month,  there  is  a  shrill  musical  up- 
roar, as  the  sun  is  setting,  in  every  marsh 
and  bog  in  the  land.  It  is  a  plaintive  sound, 
and  I  have  heard  people  from  the  city  speak 
of  it  as  lonesome  and  depressing,  but  to  the 
lover  of  the  country  it  is  a  pure  spring  mel- 
ody. The  little  piper  will  sometimes  climb 
a  bulrush,  to  which  he  clings  like  a  sailor  to 
a  mast,  and  send  forth  his  shrill  call.  There 
is  a  Southern  species,  heard  when  you  have 
72 


APRIL 

reached  the  Potomac,  whose  note  is  far  more 
harsh  and  crackling.  To  stand  on  the  verge 
of  a  swamp  vocal  with  these,  pains  and  stuns 
the  ear.  The  call  of  the  Northern  species 
is  far  more  tender  and  musical.1 

Then  is  there  anything  like  a  perfect 
April  morning?  One  hardly  knows  what 
the  sentiment  of  it  is,  but  it  is  something 
very  delicious.  It  is  youth  and  hope.  It 
is  a  new  earth  and  a  new  sky.  How  the 
air  transmits  sounds,  and  what  an  awaken- 
ing, prophetic  character  all  sounds  have! 
The  distant  barking  of  a  dog,  or  the  lowing 
of  a  cow,  or  the  crowing  of  a  cock,  seems 
from  out  the  heart  of  Nature,  and  to  be  a 
call  to  come  forth.  The  great  sun  appears 
to  have  been  reburnished,  and  there  is  some- 
thing in  his  first  glance  above  the  eastern 
hills,  and  the  way  his  eye-beams  dart  right 
and  left  and  smite  the  rugged  mountains 
into  gold,  that  quickens  the  pulse  and  in- 
spires the  heart. 

Across  the  fields  in  the  early  morning  I 
hear  some  of  the  rare  April  birds,  —  the 
chewink  and  the  brown  thrasher.  The 
robin,  bluebird,  song  sparrow,  phoebe-bird, 

l  The  Southern  species  is  called  the  green  hyla.    I  have 
since  heard  them  in  my  neighborhood  on  the  Hudson. 

73 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

etc.,  come  in  March ;  but  these  two  ground- 
birds  are  seldom  heard  till  toward  the  last 
of  April.  The  ground-birds  are  all  tree- 
singers  or  air  singers ;  they  must  have  an 
elevated  stage  to  speak  from.  Our  long- 
tailed  thrush,  or  thrasher,  like  its  congeners 
the  catbird  and  mocking-bird,  delights  in  a 
high  branch  of  some  solitary  tree,  whence  it 
will  pour  out  its  rich  and  intricate  warble  for 
an  hour  together.  This  bird  is  the  great 
American  chipper.  There  is  no  other  bird 
that  I  know  of  that  can  chip  with  such  em- 
phasis and  military  decision  as  this  yellow- 
eyed  songster.  It  is  like  the  click  of  a  giant 
gun-lock.  Why  is  the  thrasher  so  stealthy  ? 
It  always  seems  to  be  going  about  on  tiptoe. 
I  never  knew  it  to  steal  anything,  and  yet  it 
skulks  and  hides  like  a  fugitive  from  justice. 
One  never  sees  it  flying  aloft  in  the  air  and 
traversing  the  world  openly,  like  most  birds, 
but  it  darts  along  fences  and  through  bushes 
as  if  pursued  by  a  guilty  conscience.  Only 
when  the  musical  fit  is  upon  it  does  it  come 
up  into  full  view,  and  invite  the  world  to 
hear  and  behold. 

The  chewink  is  a  shy  bird  also,  but  not 
stealthy.     It  is  very  inquisitive,  and  sets  up 
a  great  scratching  among  the  leaves,  appar- 
74 


APRIL 

ently  to  attract  your  attention.  The  male 
is  perhaps  the  most  conspicuously  marked 
of  all  the  ground-birds  except  the  bobolink, 
being  black  above,  bay  on  the  sides,  and 
white  beneath.  The  bay  is  in  compliment 
to  the  leaves  he  is  forever  scratching  among, 
—  they  have  rustled  against  his  breast  and 
sides  so  long  that  these  parts  have  taken 
their  color ;  but  whence  come  the  white 
and  black  ?  The  bird  seems  to  be  aware 
that  his  color  betrays  him,  for  there  are  few 
birds  in  the  woods  so  careful  about  keeping 
themselves  screened  from  view.  When  in 
song,  its  favorite  perch  is  the  top  of  some 
high  bush  near  to  cover.  On  being  dis- 
turbed at  such  times,  it  pitches  down  into 
the  brush  and  is  instantly  lost  to  view. 

This  is  the  bird  that  Thomas  Jefferson 
wrote  to  Wilson  about,  greatly  exciting  the 
latter' s  curiosity.  Wilson  was  just  then 
upon  the  threshold  of  his  career  as  an  orni- 
thologist, and  had  made  a  drawing  of  the 
Canada  jay,  which  he  sent  to  the  President. 
It  was  a  new  bird,  and  in  reply  Jefferson 
called  his  attention  to  a  "  curious  bird " 
which  was  everywhere  to  be  heard,  but 
scarcely  ever  to  be  seen.  He  had  for 
twenty  years  interested  the  young  sports- 
75 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

men  of  his  neighborhood  to  shoot  one  for 
him,  but  without  success.  "  It  is  in  all  the 
forests,  from  spring  to  fall,"  he  says  in  his 
letter,  "  and  never  but  on  the  tops  of  the 
tallest  trees,  from  which  it  perpetually  ser- 
enades us  with  some  of  the  sweetest  notes, 
and  as  clear  as  those  of  the  nightingale.  I 
have  followed  it  for  miles,  without  ever  but 
once  getting  a  good  view  of  it.  It  is  of  the 
size  and  make  of  the  mocking-bird,  lightly 
thrush-colored  on  the  back,  and  a  grayish 
white  on  the  breast  and  belly.  Mr.  Ran- 
dolph, my  son-in-law,  was  in  possession  of 
one  which  had  been  shot  by  a  neighbor," 
etc.  Randolph  pronounced  it  a  flycatcher, 
which  was  a  good  way  wide  of  the  mark. 
Jefferson  must  have  seen  only  the  female, 
after  all  his  tramp,  from  his  description  of 
the  color ;  but  he  was  doubtless  following 
his  own  great  thoughts  more  than  the  bird, 
else  he  would  have  had  an  earlier  view. 
The  bird  was  not  a  new  one,  but  was  well 
known  then  as  the  ground  -  robin.  The 
President  put  Wilson  on  the  wrong  scent 
by  his  erroneous  description,  and  it  was  a 
long  time  before  the  latter  got  at  the  truth 
of  the  case.  But  Jefferson's  letter  is  a 
good  sample  of  those  which  specialists  often 


APRIL 

receive  from  intelligent  persons  who  have 
seen  or  heard  something  in  their  line  very 
curious  or  entirely  new,  and  who  set  the 
man  of  science  agog  by  a  description  of  the 
supposed  novelty,  —  a  description  that  gen- 
erally fits  the  facts  of  the  case  about  as  well 
as  your  coat  fits  the  chairback.  Strange 
and  curious  things  in  the  air,  and  in  the 
water,  and  in  the  earth  beneath,  are  seen 
every  day  except  by  those  who  are  looking 
for  them,  namely,  the  naturalists.  When 
Wilson  or  Audubon  gets  his  eye  on  the  un- 
known bird,  the  illusion  vanishes,  and  your 
phenomenon  turns  out  to  be  one  of  the 
commonplaces  of  the  fields  or  woods. 

A  prominent  April  bird,  that  one  does 
not  have  to  go  to  the  woods  or  away  from 
his  own  door  to  see  and  hear,  is  the  hardy 
and  ever-welcome  meadow-lark.  What  a 
twang  there  is  about  this  bird,  and  what 
vigor !  It  smacks  of  the  soil.  It  is  the 
winged  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  our 
spring  meadows.  What  emphasis  in  its 
"  z-d-t,  z-d-t"  and  what  character  in  its 
long,  piercing  note !  Its  straight,  tapering, 
sharp  beak  is  typical  of  its  voice.  Its 
note  goes  like  a  shaft  from  a  crossbow ;  it 
is  a  little  too  sharp  and  piercing  when  near 
77 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

at  hand,  but,  heard  in  the  proper  perspec- 
tive, it  is  eminently  melodious  and  pleasing. 
It  is  one  of  the  major  notes  of  the  fields  at 
this  season.  In  fact,  it  easily  dominates  all 
others.  "  Spring  o>  the  year  !  spring  rf  the 
year  /"  it  says,  with  a  long-drawn  breath, 
a  little  plaintive,  but  not  complaining  or 
melancholy.  At  times  it  indulges  in  some- 
thing much  more  intricate  and  lark-like 
while  hovering  on  the  wing  in  mid-air,  but 
a  song  is  beyond  the  compass  of  its  instru- 
ment, and  the  attempt  usually  ends  in  a 
breakdown.  A  clear,  sweet,  strong,  high- 
keyed  note,  uttered  from  some  knoll  or 
rock,  or  stake  in  the  fence,  is  its  proper 
vocal  performance.  It  has  the  build  and 
walk  and  flight  of  the  quail  and  the  grouse. 
It  gets  up  before  you  in  much  the  same 
manner,  and  falls  an  easy  prey  to  the  crack 
shot.  Its  yellow  breast,  surmounted  by  a 
black  crescent,  it  need  not  be  ashamed  to 
turn  to  the  morning  sun,  while  its  coat  of 
mottled  gray  is  in  perfect  keeping  with  the 
stubble  amid  which  it  walks. 

The  two  lateral  white  quills  in  its  tails 

seem   strictly  in   character.     These  quills 

spring  from  a  dash  of  scorn  and  defiance  in 

the  bird's  make-up.     By  the  aid  of  these, 

78 


APRIL 

it  can  almost  emit  a  flash  as  it  struts  about 
the  fields  and  jerks  out  its  sharp  notes. 
They  give  a  rayed,  a  definite  and  piquant 
expression  to  its  movements.  This  bird  is 
not  properly  a  lark,  but  a  starling,  say  the 
ornithologists,  though  it  is  lark-like  in  its 
habits,  being  a  walker  and  entirely  a  ground- 
bird.  Its  color  also  allies  it  to  the  true  lark. 
I  believe  there  is  no  bird  in  the  English  or 
European  fields  that  answers  to  this  hardy 
pedestrian  of  our  meadows.  He  is  a  true 
American,  and  his  note  one  of  our  charac- 
teristic April  sounds. 

Another  marked  April  note,  proceeding 
sometimes  from  the  meadows,  but  more 
frequently  from  the  rough  pastures  and 
borders  of  the  woods,  is  the  call  of  the 
high -hole,  or  golden  -  shafted  woodpecker. 
It  is  quite  as  strong  as  that  of  the  meadow- 
lark,  but  not  so  long-drawn  and  piercing. 
It  is  a  succession  of  short  notes  rapidly 
uttered,  as  if  the  bird  said  "  if-if-if-if-if-if- 
if"  The  notes  of  the  ordinary  downy  and 
hairy  woodpeckers  suggest,  in  some  way, 
the  sound  of  a  steel  punch ;  but  that  of 
the  high-hole  is  much  softer,  and  strikes 
on  the  ear  with  real  springtime  melody. 
The  high-hole  is  not  so  much  a  wood-pecker 
79 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

as  he  is  a  ground-pecker.  He  subsists 
largely  on  ants  and  crickets,  and  does  not 
appear  till  they  are  to  be  found. 

In  Solomon's  description  of  spring,  the 
voice  of  the  turtle  is  prominent,  but  our 
turtle,  or  mourning  dove,  though  it  arrives 
in  April,  can  hardly  be  said  to  contribute 
noticeably  to  the  open-air  sounds.  Its  call 
is  so  vague,  and  soft,  and  mournful,  —  in 
fact,  so  remote  and  diffused,  —  that  few 
persons  ever  hear  it  at  all. 

Such  songsters  as  the  cow  blackbird  are 
noticeable  at  this  season,  though  they  take 
a  back  seat  a  little  later.  It  utters  a  pe- 
culiarly liquid  April  sound.  Indeed,  one 
would  think  its  crop  was  full  of  water,  its 
notes  so  bubble  up  and  regurgitate,  and  are 
delivered  with  such  an  apparent  stomachic 
contraction.  This  bird  is  the  only  feath- 
ered polygamist  we  have.  The  females  are 
greatly  in  excess  of  the  males,  and  the  lat- 
ter are  usually  attended  by  three  or  four  of 
the  former.  As  soon  as  the  other  birds 
begin  to  build,  they  are  on  the  qui  vive, 
prowling  about  like  gypsies,  not  to  steal 
the  young  of  others,  but  to  steal  their  eggs 
into  other  birds'  nests,  and  so  shirk  the 
labor  and  responsibility  of  hatching  and 
80 


APRIL 

rearing  their  own  young.  As  these  birds 
do  not  mate,  and  as  therefore  there  can  be 
little  or  no  rivalry  or  competition  between 
the  males,  one  wonders  —  in  view  of  Dar- 
win's teaching  —  why  one  sex  should  have 
brighter  and  richer  plumage  than  the  other, 
which  is  the  fact.  The  males  are  easily  dis- 
tinguished from  the  dull  and  faded  females 
by  their  deep  glossy-black  coats. 

The  April  of  English  literature  corre- 
sponds nearly  to  our  May.  In  Great  Britain, 
the  swallow  and  the  cuckoo  usually  arrive 
by  the  middle  of  April ;  with  us,  their  ap- 
pearance is  a  week  or  two  later.  Our 
April,  at  its  best,  is  a  bright,  laughing  face 
under  a  hood  of  snow,  like  the  English 
March,  but  presenting  sharper  contrasts, 
a  greater  mixture  of  smiles  and  tears  and 
icy  looks  than  are  known  to  our  ancestral 
climate.  Indeed,  Winter  sometimes  re- 
traces his  steps  in  this  month,  and  unbur- 
dens himself  of  the  snows  that  the  previous 
cold  has  kept  back  ;  but  we  are  always  sure 
of  a  number  of  radiant,  equable  days,  — 
days  that  go  before  the  bud,  when  the  sun 
embraces  the  earth  with  fervor  and  deter- 
mination. How  his  beams  pour  into  the 
woods  till  the  mould  under  the  leaves  is 
81 


A   YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

warm  and  emits  an  odor  !  The  waters  glint 
and  sparkle,  the  birds  gather  in  groups,  and 
even  those  unwont  to  sing  find  a  voice. 
On  the  streets  of  the  cities,  what  a  flutter, 
what  bright  looks  and  gay  colors  !  I  recall 
one  preeminent  day  of  this  kind  last  April. 
I  made  a  note  of  it  in  my  notebook.  The 
earth  seemed  suddenly  to  emerge  from  a 
wilderness  of  clouds  and  chilliness  into  one 
of  these  blue  sunlit  spaces.  How  the  voy- 
agers rejoiced !  Invalids  came  forth,  old 
men  sauntered  down  the  street,  stocks  went 
up,  and  the  political  outlook  brightened. 

Such  days  bring  out  the  last  of  the  hiber- 
nating animals.  The  woodchuck  unrolls 
and  creeps  out  of  his  den  to  see  if  his  clover 
has  started  yet.  The  torpidity  leaves  the 
snakes  and  the  turtles,  and  they  come  forth 
and  bask  in  the  sun.  There  is  nothing  so 
small,  nothing  so  great,  that  it  does  not 
respond  to  these  celestial  spring  days,  and 
give  the  pendulum  of  life  a  fresh  start. 

April  is  also  the  month  of  the  new  furrow. 
As  soon  as  the  frost  is  gone  and  the  ground 
settled,  the  plow  is  started  upon  the  hill, 
and  at  each  bout  I  see  its  brightened  mould- 
board  flash  in  the  sun.  Where  the  last 
remnants  of  the  snowdrift  lingered  yester- 
82 


THE    LAST   SNOW    PATCHES 


APRIL 

day  the  plow  breaks  the  sod  to-day.  Where 
the  drift  was  deepest  the  grass  is  pressed 
flat,  and  there  is  a  deposit  of  sand  and  earth 
blown  from  the  fields  to  windward.  Line 
upon  line  the  turf  is  reversed,  until  there 
stands  out  of  the  neutral  landscape  a  ruddy 
square  visible  for  miles,  or  until  the  breasts 
of  the  broad  hills  glow  like  the  breasts  of 
the  robins. 

Then  who  would  not  have  a  garden  in 
April?  to  rake  together  the  rubbish  and 
burn  it  up,  to  turn  over  the  renewed  soil, 
to  scatter  the  rich  compost,  to  plant  the 
first  seed  or  bury  the  first  tuber !  It  is  not 
the  seed  that  is  planted,  any  more  than  it  is 
I  that  is  planted ;  it  is  not  the  dry  stalks 
and  weeds  that  are  burned  up,  any  more 
than  it  is  my  gloom  and  regrets  that  are 
consumed.  An  April  smoke  makes  a  clean 
harvest. 

I  think  April  is  the  best  month  to  be 
born  in.  One  is  just  in  time,  so  to  speak, 
to  catch  the  first  train,  which  is  made  up 
in  this  month.  My  April  chickens  always 
turn  out  best.  They  get  an  early  start; 
they  have  rugged  constitutions.  Late  chick- 
ens cannot  stand  the  heavy  dews,  or  with- 
stand the  predaceous  hawks.  In  April  all 
83 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

nature  starts  with  you.  You  have  not  come 
out  your  hibernaculum  too  early  or  too  late ; 
the  time  is  ripe,  and,  if  you  do  not  keep 
pace  with  the  rest,  why,  the  fault  is  not  in 
the  season. 

84 


V 

BIRCH    BROWSINGS 

THE  region  of  which  I  am  about  to  speak 
lies  in  the  southern  part  of  the  State  of 
New  York,  and  comprises  parts  of  three 
counties,  —  Ulster,  Sullivan,  and  Delaware. 
It  is  drained  by  tributaries  of  both  the 
Hudson  and  Delaware,  and,  next  to  the 
Adirondack  section,  contains  more  wild  land 
than  any  other  tract  in  the  State.  The 
mountains  which  traverse  it,  and  impart  to 
it  its  severe  northern  climate,  belong  prop- 
erly to  the  Catskill  range.  On  some  maps 
of  the  State  they  are  called  the  Pine  Moun- 
tains, though  with  obvious  local  impropriety, 
as  pine,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  is  no- 
where found  upon  them.  "Birch  Moun- 
tains "  would  be  a  more  characteristic  name, 
as  on  their  summits  birch  is  the  prevailing 
tree.  They  are  the  natural  home  of  the 
black  and  yellow  birch,  which  grow  here  to 
unusual  size.  On  their  sides  beech  and 
maple  abound ;  while,  mantling  their  lower 
slopes  and  darkening  the  valleys,  hemlock 
85 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

formerly  enticed  the  lumberman  and  tanner. 
Except  in  remote  or  inaccessible  localities, 
the  latter  tree  is  now  almost  never  found. 
In  Shandaken  and  along  the  Esopus  it  is 
about  the  only  product  the  country  yielded, 
or  is   likely  to   yield.     Tanneries   by  the 
score  have  arisen  and  flourished  upon  the 
bark,  and  some  of  them  still  remain.     Pass- 
ing through  that  region  the  present  season, 
I  saw  that  the  few  patches  of  hemlock  that 
still  lingered  high  up  «n  the  sides  of  the 
mountains  were  being  felled  and  peeled,  the 
fresh  white  bowls  of  the  trees,  just  stripped 
of  their  bark,  being  visible  a  long  distance. 
Among  these   mountains  there  are  no 
sharp  peaks,  or  abrupt  declivities,  as  in  a 
volcanic  region,  but  long,  uniform  ranges, 
heavily  timbered  to  their  summits,  and  de- 
lighting the  eye  with  vast,  undulating  hori- 
zon lines.     Looking  south  from  the  heights 
about  the  head  of  the  Delaware,  one  sees 
twenty  miles  away  a  continual  succession 
of  blue  ranges,  one  behind  the  other.     If  a 
few  large  trees  are  missing  on  the  sky  line, 
one  can  see  the  break  a  long  distance  off. 

Approaching  this  region  from  the  Hud- 
son River  side,  you  cross  a  rough,  rolling 
stretch  of  country,  skirting  the  base  of  the 
86 


THE    HOME    OF 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

Catskills,  which  from  a  point  near  Sauger- 
ties  sweep  inland ;  after  a  drive  of  a  few 
hours  you  are  within  the  shadow  of  a  high, 
bold  mountain,  which  forms  a  sort  of  butt- 
end  to  this  part  of  the  range,  and  which 
is  simply  called  High  Point.  To  the  east 
and  southeast  it  slopes  down  rapidly  to  the 
plain,  and  looks  defiance  toward  the  Hud- 
son, twenty  miles  distant ;  in  the  rear  of  it, 
and  radiating  from  it  west  and  northwest, 
are  numerous  smaller  ranges,  backing  up, 
as  it  were,  this  haughty  chief. 

From  this  point  through  to  Pennsylva- 
nia, a  distance  of  nearly  one  hundred  miles, 
stretches  the  tract  of  which  I  speak.  It  is 
a  belt  of  country  from  twenty  to  thirty 
miles  wide,  bleak  and  wild,  and  but  sparsely 
settled.  The  traveler  on  the  New  York  and 
Erie  Railroad  gets  a  glimpse  of  it. 

Many  cold,  rapid  trout  streams,  which 
flow  to  all  points  of  the  compass,  have  their 
source  in  the  small  lakes  and  copious  moun- 
tain springs  of  this  region.  The  names  of 
some  of  them  are  Mill  Brook,  Dry  Brook, 
Willewemack,  Beaver  Kill,  Elk  Bush  Kill, 
Panther  Kill,  Neversink,  Big  Ingin,  and 
Callikoon.  Beaver  Kill  is  the  main  outlet 
on  the  west.  It  joins  the  Delaware  in  the 
87 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

wilds  of  Hancock.  The  Neversink  lays 
open  the  region  to  the  south,  and  also  joins 
the  Delaware.  To  the  east,  various  Kills 
unite  with  the  Big  Ingin  to  form  the  Esopus, 
which  flows  into  the  Hudson.  Dry  Brook 
and  Mill  Brook,  both  famous  trout  streams, 
from  twelve  to  fifteen  miles  long,  find  their 
way  into  the  Delaware. 

The  east  or  Pepacton  branch  of  the  Dela- 
ware itself  takes  its  rise  near  here  in  a  deep 
pass  between  the  mountains.  I  have  many 
times  drunk  at  a  copious  spring  by  the  road- 
side, where  the  infant  river  first  sees  the  light. 
A  few  yards  beyond,  the  water  flows  the 
other  way,  directing  its  course  through  the 
Bear  Kill  and  Schoharie  Kill  into  the  Mo- 
hawk. 

Such  game  and  wild  animals  as  still  linger 
in  the  State  are  found  in  this  region.  Bears 
occasionally  make  havoc  among  the  sheep. 
The  clearings  at  the  head  of  a  valley  are 
oftenest  the  scene  of  their  depredations. 

Wild  pigeons,  in  immense  numbers,  used 
to  breed  regularly  in  the  valley  of  the  Big 
Ingin  and  about  the  head  of  the  Neversink. 
The  treetops  for  miles  were  full  of  their 
nests,  while  the  going  and  coming  of  the 
old  birds  kept  up  a  constant  din.  But  the 
88 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

gunners  soon  got  wind  of  it,  and  from  far 
and  near  were  wont  to  pour  in  during  the 
spring,  and  to  slaughter  both  old  and  young. 
This  practice  soon  had  the  effect  of  driving 
the  pigeons  all  away,  and  now  only  a  few 
pairs  breed  in  these  woods. 

Deer  are  still  met  with,  though  they  are 
becoming  scarcer  every  year.  Last  winter 
near  seventy  head  were  killed  on  the  Beaver 
Kill  alone.  I  heard  of  one  wretch,  who, 
finding  the  deer  snowbound,  walked  up  to 
them  on  his  snowshoes,  and  one  morning 
before  breakfast  slaughtered  six,  leaving 
their  carcasses  where  they  fell.  There  are 
traditions  of  persons  having  been  smitten 
blind  or  senseless  when  about  to  commit 
some  heinous  offense,  but  the  fact  that  this 
villain  escaped  without  some  such  visitation 
throws  discredit  on  all  such  stories. 

The  great  attraction,  however,  of  this 
region  is  the  brook  trout,  with  which  the 
streams  and  lakes  abound.  The  water  is 
of  excessive  coldness,  the  thermometer  indi- 
cating 44°  and  45°  in  the  springs,  and  47°  or 
48°  in  the  smaller  streams.  The  trout  are 
generally  small,  but  in  the  more  remote 
branches  their  number  is  very  great.  In 
such  localities  the  fish  are  quite  black,  but 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

in  the  lakes  they  are  of  a  lustre  and  bril- 
liancy impossible  to  describe. 

These  waters  have  been  much  visited  of 
.late  years  by  fishing  parties,  and  the  name 
of  Beaver  Kill  is  now  a  potent  word  among 
New  York  sportsmen. 

One  lake,  in  the  wilds  of  Callikoon, 
abounds  in  a  peculiar  species  of  white 
sucker,  which  is  of  excellent  quality.  It  is 
taken  only  in  spring,  during  the  spawning 
season,  at  the  time  "when  the  leaves  are 
as  big  as  a  chipmunk's  ears."  The  fish  run 
up  the  small  streams  and  inlets,  beginning 
at  nightfall,  and  continuing  till  the  chan- 
nel is  literally  packed  with  them,  and  every 
inch  of  space  is  occupied.  The  fishermen 
pounce  upon  them  at  such  times,  and  scoop 
them  up  by  the  bushel,  usually  wading  right 
into  the  living  mass  and  landing  the  fish 
with  their  hands.  A  small  party  will  often 
secure  in  this  manner  a  wagon  load  of  fish. 
Certain  conditions  of  the  weather,  as  a  warm 
south  or  southwest  wind,  are  considered 
most  favorable  for  the  fish  to  run. 

Though  familiar  all  my  life  with  the  out- 
skirts of  this  region,  I  have  only  twice 
dipped  into  its  wilder  portions.  Once  in 
1860  a  friend  and  myself  traced  the  Beaver 
90 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

Kill  to  its  source,  and  encamped  by  Balsam 
Lake.  A  cold  and  protracted  rainstorm 
coming  on,  we  were  obliged  to  leave  the 
woods  before  we  were  ready.  Neither  of  us 
will  soon  forget  that  tramp  by  an  unknown 
route  over  the  mountains,  encumbered  as 
we  were  with  a  hundred  and  one  superflui- 
ties which  we  had  foolishly  brought  along 
to  solace  ourselves  with  in  the  woods ;  nor 
that  halt  on  the  summit,  where  we  cooked 
and  ate  our  fish  in  a  drizzling  rain ;  nor, 
again,  that  rude  log  house,  with  its  sweet 
hospitality,  which  we  reached  just  at  night- 
fall on  Mill  Brook. 

In  1868  a  party  of  three  of  us  set  out 
for  a  brief  trouting  excursion  to  a  body  of 
water  called  Thomas's  Lake,  situated  in  the 
same  chain  of  mountains.  On  this  excur- 
sion, more  particularly  than  on  any  other 
I  have  ever  undertaken,  I  was  taught  how 
poor  an  Indian  I  should  make,  and  what  a 
ridiculous  figure  a  party  of  men  may  cut  in 
the  woods  when  the  way  is  uncertain  and 
the  mountains  high. 

We  left  our  team  at  a  farmhouse  near  the 

head  of  the  Mill  Brook,  one  June  afternoon, 

and  with  knapsacks  on  our  shoulders  struck 

into  the  woods  at  the  base  of  the  mountain, 

9* 


A  YEAR   IN  THE  FIELDS 

hoping  to  cross  the  range  that  intervened 
between  us  and  the  lake  by  sunset.  We 
engaged  a  good-natured  but  rather  indo- 
lent young  man,  who  happened  to  be  stop- 
ping at  the  house,  and  who  had  carried  a 
knapsack  in  the  Union  armies,  to  pilot  us 
a  couple  of  miles  into  the  woods  so  as  to 
guard  against  any  mistakes  at  the  outset. 
It  seemed  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to 
find  the  lake.  The  lay  of  the  land  was  so 
simple,  according  to  accounts,  that  I  felt 
sure  I  could  go  to  it  in  the  dark.  "  Go  up 
this  little  brook  to  its  source  on  the  side  of 
the  mountain,"  they  said.  "The  valley 
that  contains  the  lake  heads  directly  on  the 
other  side."  What  could  be  easier !  But 
on  a  little  further  inquiry,  they  said  we 
should  "bear  well  to  the  left"  when  we 
reached  the  top  of  the  mountain.  This 
opened  the  doors  again  :  "  bearing  well  to 
the  left "  was  an  uncertain  performance  in 
strange  woods.  We  might  bear  so  well  to 
the  left  that  it  would  bring  us  ill.  But  why 
bear  to  the  left  at  all,  if  the  lake  was  di- 
rectly opposite  ?  Well,  not  quite  opposite  ; 
a  little  to  the  left.  There  were  two  or  three 
other  valleys  that  headed  in  near  there. 
We  could  easily  find  the  right  one.  But  to 
92 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

make  assurance  doubly  sure,  we  engaged  a 
guide,  as  stated,  to  give  us  a  good  start,  and 
go   with   us  beyond  the  bearing-to-the-left 
point.     He  had  been  to  the  lake  the  winter 
before  and  knew  the  way.     Our  course,  the 
first  half  hour,  was  along  an  obscure  wood- 
road  which  had  been  used  for  drawing  ash 
logs   off  the  mountain  in  winter.     There 
was   some  hemlock,  but  more   maple  and 
birch.     The  woods  were  dense  and  free 
from  underbrush,  the  ascent  gradual.   Most 
of  the  way  we  kept  the  voice  of  the  creek 
in  our  ear  on  the  right.     I  approached  it 
once,  and  found  it  swarming  with  trout. 
The  water  was  as  cold  as   one  ever  need 
wish.    After  a  while  the  ascent  grew  steeper, 
the  creek  became  a  mere   rill  that  issued 
from  beneath  loose,  moss-covered  rocks  and 
stones,  and  with  much  labor  and  puffing 
we  drew  ourselves  up  the  rugged  decliv- 
ity.   Every  mountain  has  its  steepest  point, 
which  is  usually  near  the  summit,  in  keep- 
ing, I  suppose,  with  the  providence  that 
makes   the  darkest  hour  just  before  day. 
It  is  steep,  steeper,  steepest,  till  you  emerge 
on  the  smooth  level  or  gently  rounded  space 
at  the  top,  which  the  old  ice-gods  polished 
off  so  long  ago. 

93 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

We  found  this  mountain  had  a  hollow  in 
its  back  where  the  ground  was  soft  and 
swampy.  Some  gigantic  ferns,  which  we 
passed  through,  came  nearly  to  our  shoul- 
ders. We  passed  also  several  patches  of 
swamp  honeysuckles,  red  with  blossoms. 

Our  guide  at  length  paused  on  a  big  rock 
where  the  land  began  to  dip  down  the  other 
way,  and  concluded  that  he  had  gone  far 
enough,  and  that  we  would  now  have  no 
difficulty  in  finding  the  lake.  "  It  must  lie 
right  down  there,"  he  said,  pointing  with 
his  hand.  But  it  was  plain  that  he  was  not 
quite  sure  in  his  own  mind.  He  had  several 
times  wavered  in  his  course,  and  had  shown 
considerable  embarrassment  when  bearing 
to  the  left  across  the  summit.  Still  we 
thought  little  of  it.  We  were  full  of  con- 
fidence, and,  bidding  him  adieu,  plunged 
down  the  mountain-side,  following  a  spring 
run  that  we  had  no  doubt  led  to  the  lake. 

In  these  woods,  which  had  a  southeastern 
exposure,  I  first  began  to  notice  the  wood 
thrush.  In  coming  up  the  other  side  I  had 
not  seen  a  feather  of  any  kind,  or  heard  a 
note.  Now  the  golden  trillide-de  of  the 
wood  thrush  sounded  through  the  silent 
woods.  While  looking  for  a  fish-pole  about 
94 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

half  way  down  the  mountain,  I  saw  a 
thrush's  nest  in  a  little  sapling  about  ten 
feet  from  the  ground. 

After  continuing  our  descent  till  our  only 
guide,  the  spring  run,  became  quite  a  trout 
brook,  and  its  tiny  murmur  a  loud  brawl, 
we  began  to  peer  anxiously  through  the 
trees  for  a  glimpse  of  the  lake,  or  for  some 
conformation  of  the  land  that  would  indi- 
cate its  proximity.  An  object  which  we 
vaguely  discerned  in  looking  under  the  near 
trees  and  over  the  more  distant  ones  proved, 
on  further  inspection,  to  be  a  patch  of 
plowed  ground.  Presently  we  made  out  a 
burnt  fallow  near  it.  This  was  a  wet  blanket 
to  our  enthusiasm.  No  lake,  no  sport,  no 
trout  for  supper  that  night.  The  rather 
indolent  young  man  had  either  played  us 
a  trick,  or,  as  seemed  more  likely,  had 
missed  the  way.  We  were  particularly  anx- 
ious to  be  at  the  lake  between  sundown  and 
dark,  as  at  that  time  the  trout  jump  most 
freely. 

Pushing  on,  we  soon  emerged  into  a 
stumpy  field,  at  the  head  of  a  steep  valley, 
which  swept  around  toward  the  west. 
About  two  hundred  rods  below  us  was  a 
rude  log  house,  with  smoke  issuing  from 
95 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

the  chimney.  A  boy  came  out  and  moved 
toward  the  spring  with  a  pail  in  his  hand. 
We  shouted  to  him,  when  he  turned  and 
ran  back  into  the  house  without  pausing 
to  reply.  In  a  moment  the  whole  family 
hastily  rushed  into  the  yard,  and  turned 
their  faces  toward  us.  If  we  had  come 
down  their  chimney,  they  could  not  have 
seemed  more  astonished.  Not  making  out 
what  they  said,  I  went  down  to  the  house, 
and  learned  to  my  chagrin  that  we  were 
still  on  the  Mill  Brook  side,  having  crossed 
only  a  spur  of  the  mountain.  We  had  not 
borne  sufficiently  to  the  left,  so  that  the 
main  range,  which,  at  the  point  of  crossing, 
suddenly  breaks  off  to  the  southeast,  still 
intervened  between  us  and  the  lake.  We 
were  about  five  miles,  as  the  water  runs, 
from  the  point  of  starting,  and  over  two 
from  the  lake.  We  must  go  directly  back 
to  the  top  of  the  range  where  the  guide 
had  left  us,  and  then,  by  keeping  well  to  the 
left,  we  would  soon  come  to  a  line  of  marked 
trees,  which  would  lead  us  to  the  lake.  So, 
turning  upon  our  trail,  we  doggedly  began 
the  work  of  undoing  what  we  had  just  done, 
—  in  all  cases  a  disagreeable  task,  in  this 
case  a  very  laborious  one  also.  It  was  after 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS 

sunset  when  we  turned  back,  and  before 
we  had  got  half  way  up  the  mountain  it 
began  to  be  quite  dark.  We  were  often 
obliged  to  rest  our  packs  against  trees  and 
take  breath,  which  made  our  progress  slow. 
Finally  a  halt  was  called,  beside  an  immense 
flat  rock  which  had  paused  in  its  slide  down 
the  mountain,  and  we  prepared  to  encamp 
for  the  night.  A  fire  was  built,  the  rock 
cleared  off,  a  small  ration  of  bread  served 
out,  our  accoutrements  hung  up  out  of  the 
way  of  the  hedgehogs  that  were  supposed 
to  infest  the  locality,  and  then  we  disposed 
ourselves  for  sleep.  If  the  owls  or  porcu- 
pines (and  I  think  I  heard  one  of  the  latter 
in  the  middle  of  the  night)  reconnoitred  our 
camp,  they  saw  a  buffalo  robe  spread  upon 
a  rock,  with  three  old  felt  hats  arranged  on 
one  side,  and  three  pairs  of  sorry-looking 
cowhide  boots  protruding  from  the  other. 

When  we  lay  down,  there  was  apparently 
not  a  mosquito  in  the  woods  ;  but  the  "  no- 
see-ems,"  as  Thoreau's  Indian  aptly  named 
the  midges,  soon  found  us  out,  and  after 
the  fire  had  gone  down  annoyed  us  very 
much.  My  hands  and  wrists  suddenly  be- 
gan to  smart  and  itch  in  a  most  unaccount- 
able manner.  My  first  thought  was  that 
97 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

they  had  been  poisoned  in  some  way.  Then 
the  smarting  extended  to  my  neck  and  face, 
even  to  my  scalp,  when  I  began  to  suspect 
what  was  the  matter.  So,  wrapping  myself 
up  more  thoroughly,  and  stowing  my  hands 
away  as  best  I  could,  I  tried  to  sleep,  being 
some  time  behind  my  companions,  who  ap- 
peared not  to  mind  the  "no-see-ems."  I 
was  further  annoyed  by  some  little  irregu- 
larity on  my  side  of  the  couch.  The  cham- 
bermaid had  not  beaten  it  up  well.  One 
huge  lump  refused  to  be  mollified,  and  each 
attempt  to  adapt  it  to  some  natural  hollow 
in  my  own  body  brought  only  a  moment's 
relief.  But  at  last  I  got  the  better  of  this 
also,  and  slept.  Late  in  the  night  I  woke 
up,  just  in  time  to  hear  a  golden-crowned 
thrush  sing  in  a  tree  near  by.  It  sang 
as  loud  and  cheerily  as  at  midday,  and  I 
thought  myself  after  all  quite  in  luck. 
Birds  occasionally  sing  at  night,  just  as  the 
cock  crows.  I  have  heard  the  hairbird,  and 
the  note  of  the  kingbird ;  and  the  ruffed 
grouse  frequently  drums  at  night. 

At  the  first  faint  signs  of  day  a  wood- 
thrush  sang,  a  few  rods  below  us.  Then 
after  a  little  delay,  as  the  gray  light  began 
to  grow  around,  thrushes  broke  out  in  full 


A   BIRD   SONG 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

song  in  all  parts  of  the  woods.  I  thought 
I  had  never  before  heard  them  sing  so 
sweetly.  Such  a  leisurely,  golden  chant ! 
—  it  consoled  us  for  all  ,we  had  undergone. 
It  was  the  first  thing  in  order,  —  the  worms 
were  safe  till  after  this  morning  chorus. 
I  judged  that  the  birds  roosted  but  a  few 
feet  from  the  ground.  In  fact,  a  bird  in  all 
cases  roosts  where  it  builds,  and  the  wood 
thrush  occupies,  as  it  were,  the  first  story 
of  the  woods. 

There  is  something  singular  about  the 
distribution  of  the  wood  thrushes.  At  an 
earlier  stage  of  my  observations  I  should 
have  been  much  surprised  at  finding  it  in 
these  woods.  Indeed,  I  had  stated  in  print 
on  two  occasions  that  the  wood  thrush  was 
not  found  in  the  higher  lands  of  the  Cats- 
kills,  but  that  the  hermit  thrush  and  the 
veery,  or  Wilson's  thrush,  were  common. 
It  turns  out  that  this  statement  is  only  half 
true.  The  wood  thrush  is  found  also,  but 
is  much  more  rare  and  secluded  in  its  habits 
than  either  of  the  others,  being  seen  only 
during  the  breeding  season  on  remote  moun- 
tains, and  then  only  on  their  eastern  and 
southern  slopes.  I  have  never  yet  in  this 
region  found  the  bird  spending  the  season 
99 


A   YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

in  the  near  and  familiar  woods,  which  is 
directly  contrary  to  observations  I  have 
made  in  other  parts  of  the  State.  So  differ- 
ent are  the  habits  of  birds  in  different 
localities. 

As  soon  as  it  was  fairly  light  we  were  up 
and  ready  to  resume  our  march.  A  small 
bit  of  bread-and-butter  and  a  swallow  or 
two  of  whiskey  was  all  we  had  for  breakfast 
that  morning.  Our  supply  of  each  was 
very  limited,  and  we  were  anxious  to  save 
a  little  of  both,  to  relieve  the  diet  of  trout 
to  which  we  looked  forward. 

At  an  early  hour  we  reached  the  rock 
where  we  had  parted  with  the  guide,  and 
looked  around  us  into  the  dense,  trackless 
woods  with  many  misgivings.  To  strike 
out  now  on  our  own  hook,  where  the  way 
was  so  blind  and  after  the  experience  we 
had  just  had,  was  a  step  not  to  be  carelessly 
taken.  The  tops  of  these  mountains  are 
so  broad,  and  a  short  distance  in  the  woods 
seems  so  far,  that  one  is  by  no  means  mas- 
ter of  the  situation  after  reaching  the  sum- 
mit. And  then  there  are  so  many  spurs 
and  offshoots  and  changes  of  direction, 
added  to  the  impossibility  of  making  any 
generalization  by  the  aid  of  the  eye,  that 
100 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS1 


before  one  is  aware  of  it  he  is  yer 
his  mark. 

I  remembered  now  that  a  young  farmer 
of  my  acquaintance  had  told  me  how  he  had 
made  a  long  day's  march  through  the  heart 
of  this  region,  without  path  or  guide  of  any 
kind,  and  had  hit  his  mark  squarely.  He 
had  been  bark-peeling  in  Callikoon,  —  a  fa- 
mous country  for  bark,  —  and,  having  got 
enough  of  it,  he  desired  to  reach  his  home 
on  Dry  Brook  without  making  the  usual 
circuitous  journey  between  the  two  places. 
To  do  this  necessitated  a  march  of  ten  or 
twelve  miles  across  several  ranges  of  moun- 
tains and  through  an  unbroken  forest,  —  a 
hazardous  undertaking  in  which  no  one 
would  join  him.  Even  the  old  hunters  who 
were  familiar  with  the  ground  dissuaded 
him  and  predicted  the  failure  of  his  enter- 
prise. But  having  made  up  his  mind,  he 
possessed  himself  thoroughly  of  the  topo- 
graphy of  the  country  from  the  aforesaid 
hunters,  shouldered  his  axe,  and  set  out, 
holding  a  straight  course  through  the  woods, 
and  turning  aside  for  neither  swamps, 
streams,  nor  mountains.  When  he  paused 
to  rest  he  would  mark  some  object  ahead 
of  him  with  his  eye,  in  order  that  on  get- 
101 


1    A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 


up  again.  h6  might  not  deviate  from 
his  course.  His  directors  had  told  him  of 
a  hunter's  cabin  about  midway  on  his  route, 
which  if  he  struck  he  might  be  sure  he  was 
right.  About  noon  this  cabin  was  reached, 
and  at  sunset  he  emerged  at  the  head  of 
Dry  Brook. 

After  looking  in  vain  for  the  line  of 
marked  trees,  we  moved  off  to  the  left  in  a 
doubtful,  hesitating  manner,  keeping  on  the 
highest  ground  and  blazing  the  trees  as  we 
went.  We  were  afraid  to  go  down  hill,  lest 
we  should  descend  too  soon  ;  our  vantage- 
ground  was  high  ground.  A  thick  fog  com- 
ing on,  we  were  more  bewildered  than  ever. 
Still  we  pressed  forward,  climbing  up  ledges 
and  wading  through  ferns  for  about  two 
hours,  when  we  paused  by  a  spring  that 
issued  from  beneath  an  immense  wall  of 
rock  that  belted  the  highest  part  of  the 
mountain.  There  was  quite  a  broad  plateau 
here,  and  the  birch  wood  was  very  dense, 
and  the  trees  of  unusual  size. 

After  resting  and  exchanging  opinions, 
we  all  concluded  that  it  was  best  not  to 
continue  our  search  encumbered  as  we  were  ; 
but  we  were  not  willing  to  abandon  it  alto- 
gether, and  I  proposed  to  my  companions 
102 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

to  leave  them  beside  the  spring  with  our 
traps,  while  I  made  one  thorough  and  final 
effort  to  find  the  lake.  If  I  succeeded  and 
desired  them  to  come  forward,  I  was  to  fire 
my  gun  three  times  ;  if  I  failed  and  wished 
to  return,  I  would  fire  it  twice,  they  of 
course  responding. 

So,  filling  my  canteen  from  the  spring,  I 
set  out  again,  taking  the  spring  run  for  my 
guide.  Before  I  had  followed  it  two  hundred 
yards  it  sank  into  the  ground  at  my  feet. 
I  had  half  a  mind  to  be  superstitious  and  to 
believe  that  we  were  under  a  spell,  since 
our  guides  played  us  such  tricks.  However, 
I  determined  to  put  the  matter  to  a  further 
test,  and  struck  out  boldly  to  the  left.  This 
seemed  to  be  the  keyword,  — to  the  left,  to 
the  left.  The  fog  had  now  lifted,  so  that  I 
could  form  a  better  idea  of  the  lay  of  the 
land.  Twice  I  looked  down  the  steep  sides 
of  the  mountain,  sorely  tempted  to  risk  a 
plunge.  Still  I  hesitated  and  kept  along  on 
the  brink.  As  I  stood  on  a  rock  deliberat- 
ing, I  heard  a  crackling  of  the  brush,  like 
the  tread  of  some  large  game,  on  a  plateau 
below  me.  Suspecting  the  truth  of  the 
case,  I  moved  stealthily  down,  and  found  a 
herd  of  young  cattle  leisurely  browsing. 
103 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

We  had  several  times  crossed  their  trail, 
and  had  seen  that  morning  a  level,  grassy 
place  on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where 
they  had  passed  the  night.  Instead  of  be- 
ing frightened,  as  I  had  expected,  they 
seemed  greatly  delighted,  and  gathered 
around  me  as  if  to  inquire  the  tidings  from 
the  outer  world, — perhaps  the  quotations 
of  the  cattle  market.  They  came  up  to  me, 
and  eagerly  licked  my  hand,  clothes,  and 
gun.  Salt  was  what  they  were  after,  and 
they  were  ready  to  swallow  anything  that 
contained  the  smallest  percentage  of  it. 
They  were  mostly  yearlings  and  as  sleek  as 
moles.  They  had  a  very  gamy  look.  We 
were  afterwards  told  that,  in  the  spring,  the 
farmers  round  about  turn  into  these  woods 
their  young  cattle,  which  do  not  come  out 
again  till  fall.  They  are  then  in  good  con- 
dition, —  not  fat,  like  grass-fed  cattle,  but 
trim  and  supple,  like  deer.  Once  a  month 
the  owner  hunts  them  up  and  salts  them. 
They  have  their  beats,  and  seldom  wander 
beyond  well-defined  limits.  It  was  interest- 
ing to  see  them  feed.  They  browsed  on 
the  low  limbs  and  bushes,  and  on  the  vari- 
ous plants,  munching  at  everything  without 
any  apparent  discrimination. 
104 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

They  attempted  to  follow  me,  but  I 
escaped  them  by  clambering  down  some 
steep  rocks.  I  now  found  myself  gradually 
edging  down  the  side  of  the  mountain,  keep- 
ing around  it  in  a  spiral  manner,  and  scan- 
ning the  woods  and  the  shape  of  the  ground 
for  some  encouraging  hint  or  sign.  Finally 
the  woods  became  more  open,  and  the 
descent  less  rapid.  The  trees  were  remark- 
ably straight  and  uniform  in  size.  Black 
birches,  the  first  I  had  seen,  were  very 
numerous.  I  felt  encouraged.  Listening 
attentively,  I  caught,  from  a  breeze  just 
lifting  the  drooping  leaves,  a  sound  that  I 
willingly  believed  was  made  by  a  bullfrog. 
On  this  hint,  I  tore  down  through  the  woods 
at  my  highest  speed.  Then  I  paused  and 
listened  again.  This  time  there  was  no 
mistaking  it ;  it  was  the  sound  of  frogs. 
Much  elated,  I  rushed  on.  By  and  by  I 
could  hear  them  as  I  ran.  Pthrung,  Pthrung; 
croaked  the  old  ones ;  pug,  pug;  shrilly 
joined  in  the  smaller  fry. 

Then  I  caught,  through  the  lower  trees, 
a  gleam  of  blue,  which  I  first  thought  was 
distant  sky.  A  second  look  and  I  knew  it 
to  be  water,  and  in  a  moment  more  I  stepped 
from  the  woods  and  stood  upon  the  shore  of 
I05 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

the  lake.  I  exulted  silently.  There  it  was 
at  last,  sparkling  in  the  morning  sun,  and 
as  beautiful  as  a  dream.  It  was  so  good  to 
come  upon  such  open  space  and  such  bright 
hues,  after  wandering  in  the  dim,  dense 
woods !  The  eye  is  as  delighted  as  an 
escaped  bird,  and  darts  gleefully  from  point 
to  point. 

The  lake  was  a  long  oval,  scarcely  more 
than  a  mile  in  circumference,  with  evenly 
wooded  shores,  which  rose  gradually  on  all 
sides.  After  contemplating  the  scene  for 
a  moment,  I  stepped  back  into  the  woods, 
and,  loading  my  gun  as  heavily  as  I  dared, 
discharged  it  three  times.  The  reports 
seemed  to  fill  all  the  mountains  with  sound. 
The  frogs  quickly  hushed,  and  I  listened 
for  the  response.  But  no  response  came. 
Then  I  tried  again  and  again,  but  without 
evoking  an  answer.  One  of  my  companions, 
however,  who  had  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
high  rocks  in  the  rear  of  the  spring,  thought 
he  heard  faintly  one  report.  It  seemed  an 
immense  distance  below  him,  and  far  around 
under  the  mountain.  I  knew  I  had  come  a 
long  way,  and  hardly  expected  to  be  able  to 
communicate  with  my  companions  in  the 
manner  agreed  upon.  I  therefore  started 
106 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

back,  choosing  my  course  without  any  refer- 
ence to  the  circuitous  route  by  which  I  had 
come,  and  loading  heavily  and  firing  at  in- 
tervals. I  must  have  aroused  many  long- 
dormant  echoes  from  a  Rip  Van  Winkle 
sleep.  As  my  powder  got  low,  I  fired  and 
halloed  alternately,  till  I  came  near  splitting 
both  my  throat  and  gun.  Finally,  after  I 
had  begun  to  have  a  very  ugly  feeling  of 
alarm  and  disappointment,  and  to  cast  about 
vaguely  for  some  course  to  pursue  in  the 
emergency  that  seemed  near  at  hand,  — 
namely,  the  loss  of  my  companions  now  I 
had  found  the  lake, — a  favoring  breeze 
brought  me  the  last  echo  of  a  response.  I 
rejoined  with  spirit,  and  hastened  with  all 
speed  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound 
had  come,  but,  after  repeated  trials,  failed 
to  elicit  another  answering  sound.  This 
filled  me  with  apprehension  again.  I  feared 
that  my  friends  had  been  misled  by  the 
reverberations,  and  I  pictured  them  to  my- 
self hastening  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Paying  little  attention  to  my  course,  but 
paying  dearly  for  my  carelessness  afterward, 
I  rushed  forward  to  undeceive  them.  But 
they  had  not  been  deceived,  and  in  a  few 
moments  an  answering  shout  revealed  them 
107 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

near  at  hand.  I  heard  their  tramp,  the 
bushes  parted,  and  we  three  met  again. 

In  answer  to  their  eager  inquiries,  I  as- 
sured them  that  I  had  seen  the  lake,  that 
it  was  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  that 
we  could  not  miss  it  if  we  kept  straight  down 
from  where  we  then  were. 

My  clothes  were  soaked  with  perspiration, 
but  I  shouldered  my  knapsack  with  alacrity, 
and  we  began  the  descent.  I  noticed  that 
the  woods  were  much  thicker,  and  had  quite 
a  diff erent  look  from  those  I  had  passed 
through,  but  thought  nothing  of  it,  as  I 
expected  to  strike  the  lake  near  its  head, 
whereas  I  had  before  come  out  at  its  foot. 
We  had  not  gone  far  when  we  crossed  a 
line  of  marked  trees,  which  my  companions 
were  disposed  to  follow.  It  intersected  our 
course  nearly  at  right  angles,  and  kept  along 
and  up  the  side  of  the  mountain.  My  im- 
pression was  that  it  led  up  from  the  lake, 
and  that  by  keeping  our  own  course  we 
should  reach  the  lake  sooner  than  if  we 
followed  this  line. 

About  half  way  down  the  mountain,  we 
could  see  through  the  interstices  the  op- 
posite slope.  I  encouraged  my  comrades 
by  telling  them  that  the  lake  was  between 
108 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

us  and  that,  and  not  more  than  half  a  mile 
distant.  We  soon  reached  the  bottom, 
where  we  found  a  small  stream  and  quite 
an  extensive  alder  swamp,  evidently  the 
ancient  bed  of  a  lake.  I  explained  to  my 
half -vexed  and  half -incredulous  companions 
that  we  were  probably  above  the  lake,  and 
that  this  stream  must  lead  to  it.  "  Follow 
it,"  they  said;  "we  will  wait  here  till  we 
hear  from  you." 

So  I  went  on,  more  than  ever  disposed 
to  believe  that  we  were  under  a  spell,  and 
that  the  lake  had  slipped  from  my  grasp 
after  all.  Seeing  no  favorable  sign  as  I 
went  forward,  I  laid  down  my  accoutre- 
ments, and  climbed  a  decayed  beech  that 
leaned  out  over  the  swamp  and  promised  a 
good  view  from  the  top.  As  I  stretched 
myself  up  to  look  around  from  the  highest 
attainable  branch,  there  was  suddenly  a 
loud  crack  at  the  root.  With  a  celerity 
that  would  at  least  have  done  credit  to  a 
bear,  I  regained  the  ground,  having  caught 
but  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  country, 
but  enough  to  convince  me  no  lake  was 
near.  Leaving  all  incumbrances  here  but 
my  gun,  I  still  pressed  on,  loath  to  be  thus 
baffled.  After  floundering  through  another 
109 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

alder  swamp  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  I  flat- 
tered myself  that  I  was  close  on  to  the 
lake.  I  caught  sight  of  a  low  spur  of  the 
mountain  sweeping  around  like  a  half-ex- 
tended arm,  and  I  fondly  imagined  that 
within  its  clasp  was  the  object  of  my  search. 
But  I  found  only  more  alder  swamp.  After 
this  region  was  cleared,  the  creek  began  to 
descend  the  mountain  very  rapidly.  Its 
banks  became  high  and  narrow,  and  it  went 
whirling  away  with  a  sound  that  seemed  to 
my  ears  like  a  burst  of  ironical  laughter.  I 
turned  back  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  dis- 
gust, shame,  and  vexation.  In  fact  I  was 
almost  sick,  and  when  I  reached  my  com- 
panions, after  an  absence  of  nearly  two 
hours,  hungry,  fatigued,  and  disheartened, 
I  would  have  sold  my  interest  in  Thomas's 
Lake  at  a  very  low  figure.  For  the  first 
time,  I  heartily  wished  myself  well  out  of 
the  woods.  Thomas  might  keep  his  lake, 
and  the  enchanters  guard  his  possession  ! 
I  doubted  if  he  had  ever  found  it  the  second 
time,  or  if  any  one  else  ever  had. 

My  companions,  who  were   quite  fresh, 
and  who  had  not  felt  the  strain  of  baffled 
purpose  as  I  had,  assumed  a  more  encourag- 
ing tone.     After  I  had  rested  awhile,  and 
no 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

partaken  sparingly  of  the  bread  and  whiskey, 
which  in  such  an  emergency  is  a  great  im- 
provement on  bread  and  water,  I  agreed  to 
their  proposition  that  we  should  make  an- 
other attempt.  As  if  to  reassure  us,  a  robin 
sounded  his  cheery  call  near  by,  and  the 
winter  wren,  the  first  I  had  heard  in  these 
woods,  set  his  music-box  going,  which  fairly 
ran  over  with  fine,  gushing,  lyrical  sounds. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  but  this  bird  is  one 
of  our  finest  songsters.  If  it  would  only 
thrive  and  sing  well  when  caged,  like  the 
canary,  how  far  it  would  surpass  that  bird  ! 
It  has  all  the  vivacity  and  versatility  of  the 
canary,  without  any  of  its  shrillness.  Its 
song  is  indeed  a  little  cascade  of  melody. 

We  again  retraced  our  steps,  rolling  the 
stone,  as  it  were,  back  up  the  mountain, 
determined  to  commit  ourselves  to  the  line 
of  marked  trees.  These  we  finally  reached, 
and,  after  exploring  the  country  to  the 
right,  saw  that  bearing  to  the  left  was  still 
the  order.  The  trail  led  up  over  a  gentle 
rise  of  ground,  and  in  less  than  twenty 
minutes  we  were  in  the  woods  I  had  passed 
through  when  I  found  the  lake.  The  error 
I  had  made  was  then  plain ;  we  had  come 
off  the  mountain  a  few  paces  too  far  to  the 
in 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

right,  and  so  had  passed  down  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  ridge,  into  what  we  afterwards 
learned  was  the  valley  of  Alder  Creek. 

We  now  made  good  time,  and  before 
many  minutes  I  again  saw  the  mimic  sky 
glance  through  the  trees.  As  we  ap- 
proached the  lake  a  solitary  woodchuck, 
the  first  wild  animal  we  had  seen  since 
entering  the  woods,  sat  crouched  upon  the 
root  of  a  tree  a  few  feet  from  the  water,  ap- 
parently completely  nonplussed  by  the  un- 
expected appearance  of  danger  on  the  land 
side.  All  retreat  was  cut  off,  and  he  looked 
his  fate  in  the  face  without  flinching.  I 
slaughtered  him  just  as  a  savage  would  have 
done,  and  from  the  same  motive,  —  I  wanted 
his  carcass  to  eat. 

The  mid-afternoon  sun  was  now  shining 
upon  the  lake,  and  a  low,  steady  breeze 
drove  the  little  waves  rocking  to  the  shore. 
A  herd  of  cattle  were  browsing  on  the  other 
side,  and  the  bell  of  the  leader  sounded 
across  the  water.  In  these  solitudes  its 
clang  was  wild  and  musical. 

To  try  the  trout  was  the  first  thing  in 

order.     On  a  rude  raft  of   logs  which  we 

found  moored  at  the  shore,  and  which  with 

two  aboard  shipped  about  a  foot  of  water, 

112 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

we  floated  out  and  wet  our  first  fly  in 
Thomas's  Lake ;  but  the  trout  refused  to 
jump,  and,  to  be  frank,  not  more  than  a 
dozen  and  a  half  were  caught  during  our 
stay.  Only  a  week  previous,  a  party  of 
three  had  taken  in  a  few  hours  all  the  fish 
they  could  carry  out  of  the  woods,  and  had 
nearly  surfeited  their  neighbors  with  trout. 
But  from  some  cause  they  now  refused  to 
rise,  or  to  touch  any  kind  of  bait ;  so  we 
fell  to  catching  the  sunfish,  which  were 
small  but  very  abundant.  Their  nests  were 
all  along  shore.  A  space  about  the  size  of 
a  breakfast-plate  was  cleared  of  sediment 
and  decayed  vegetable  matter,  revealing 
the  pebbly  bottom,  fresh  and  bright,  with 
one  or  two  fish  suspended  over  the  centre 
of  it,  keeping  watch  and  ward.  If  an  in- 
truder approached,  they  would  dart  at  him 
spitefully.  These  fish  have  the  air  of  ban- 
tam cocks,  and,  with  their  sharp,  prickly 
fins  and  spines  and  scaly  sides,  must  be 
ugly  customers  in  a  hand-to-hand  encounter 
with  other  finny  warriors.  To  a  hungry 
man  they  look  about  as  unpromising  as 
hemlock  slivers,  so  thorny  and  thin  are 
they ;  yet  there  is  sweet  meat  in  them,  as 
we  found  that  day. 

"3 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

Much  refreshed,  I  set  out  with  the  sun 
low  in  the  west  to  explore  the  outlet  of  the 
lake  and  try  for  trout  there,  while  my  com- 
panions made  further  trials  in  the  lake  itself. 
The  outlet,  as  is  usual  in  bodies  of  water  of 
this  kind,  was  very  gentle  and  private.  The 
stream,  six  or  eight  feet  wide,  flowed  silently 
and  evenly  along  for  a  distance  of  three  or 
four  rods,  when  it  suddenly,  as  if  conscious 
of  its  freedom,  took  a  leap  down  some  rocks. 
Thence,  as  far  as  I  followed  it,  its  descent 
was  very  rapid  through  a  continuous  succes- 
sion of  brief  falls  like  so  many  steps  down 
the  mountain.  Its  appearance  promised 
more  trout  than  I  found,  though  I  returned 
to  camp  with  a  very  respectable  string. 

Toward  sunset  I  went  round  to  explore 
the  inlet,  and  found  that  as  usual  the  stream 
wound  leisurely  through  marshy  ground. 
The  water  being  much  colder  than  in  the 
outlet,  the  trout  were  more  plentiful.  As 
I  was  picking  my  way  over  the  miry  ground 
and  through  the  rank  growths,  a  ruffed 
grouse  hopped  up  on  a  fallen  branch  a  few 
paces  before  me,  and,  jerking  his  tail,  threat- 
ened to  take  flight.  But  as  I  was  at  that 
moment  gunless  and  remained  stationary, 
he  presently  jumped  down  and  walked  away. 
114 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

A  seeker  of  birds,  and  ever  on  the  alert 
for  some  new  acquaintance,  my  attention 
was  arrested,  on  first  entering  the  swamp, 
by  a  bright,  lively  song,  or  warble,  that 
issued  from  the  branches  overhead,  and 
that  was  entirely  new  to  me,  though  there 
was  something  in  the  tone  of  it  that  told 
me  the  bird  was  related  to  the  wood-wagtail 
and  to  the  water-wagtail  or  thrush.  The 
strain  was  emphatic  and  quite  loud,  like  the 
canary's,  but  very  brief.  The  bird  kept  it- 
self well  secreted  in  the  upper  branches  of 
the  trees,  and  for  a  long  time  eluded  my  eye. 
I  passed  to  and  fro  several  times,  and  it 
seemed  to  break  out  afresh  as  I  approached 
a  certain  little  bend  in  the  creek,  and  to 
cease  after  I  had  got  beyond  it ;  no  doubt 
its  nest  was  somewhere  in  the  vicinity. 
After  some  delay  the  bird  was  sighted  and 
brought  down.  It  proved  to  be  the  small, 
or  northern,  water-thrush  (called  also  the 
New  York  water-thrush),  —  a  new  bird  to 
me.  In  size  it  was  noticeably  smaller  than 
the  large,  or  Louisiana,  water-thrush,  as 
described  by  Audubon,  but  in  other  respects 
its  general  appearance  was  the  same.  It 
was  a  great  treat  to  me,  and  again  I  felt 
myself  in  luck. 

"5 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

This  bird  was  unknown  to  the  older  or- 
nithologists, and  is  but  poorly  described  by 
the  new.  It  builds  a  mossy  nest  on  the 
ground,  or  under  the  edge  of  a  decayed  log. 
A  correspondent  writes  me  that  he  has 
found  it  breeding  on  the  mountains  in  Penn- 
sylvania. The  large-billed  water-thrush  is 
much  the  superior  songster,  but  the  present 
species  has  a  very  bright  and  cheerful  strain. 
The  specimen  I  saw,  contrary  to  the  habits 
of  the  family,  kept  in  the  treetops  like  a 
warbler,  and  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  catch- 
ing insects. 

The  birds  were  unusually  plentiful  and 
noisy  about  the  head  of  this  lake ;  robins, 
blue  jays,  and  woodpeckers  greeted  me  with 
their  familiar  notes.  The  blue  jays  found 
an  owl  or  some  wild  animal  a  short  distance 
above  me,  and,  as  is  their  custom  on  such 
occasions,  proclaimed  it  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  and  kept  on  till  the  darkness  began 
to  gather  in  the  woods. 

I  also  heard  here,  as  I  had  at  two  or  three 
other  points  in  the  course  of  the  day,  the 
peculiar,  resonant  hammering  of  some  spe- 
cies of  woodpecker  upon  the  hard,  dry  limbs. 
It  was  unlike  any  sound  of  the  kind  I  had 
ever  before  heard,  and,  repeated  at  intervals 
116 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

through  the  silent  woods,  was  a  very  marked 
and  characteristic  feature.  Its  peculiarity 
was  the  ordered  succession  of  the  raps, 
which  gave  it  the  character  of  a  premedi- 
tated performance.  There  were  first  three 
strokes  following  each  other  rapidly,  then 
two  much  louder  ones  with  longer  intervals 
between  them.  I  heard  the  drumming  here, 
and  the  next  day  at  sunset  at  Furlow  Lake, 
the  source  of  Dry  Brook,  and  in  no  instance 
was  the  order  varied.  There  was  melody 
in  it,  such  as  a  woodpecker  knows  how  to 
evoke  from  a  smooth,  dry  branch.  It  sug- 
gested something  quite  as  pleasing  as  the 
liveliest  bird-song,  and  was  if  anything  more 
woodsy  and  wild.  As  the  yellow-bellied 
woodpecker  was  the  most  abundant  species 
in  these  woods,  I  attributed  it  to  him.  It 
is  the  one  sound  that  still  links  itself  with 
those  scenes  in  my  mind. 

At  sunset  the  grouse  began  to  drum  in 
all  parts  of  the  woods  about  the  lake.  I 
could  hear  five  at  one  time,  thump,  thump, 
thump,  thump,  thr-r-r-r-r-r-rr.  It  was  a 
homely,  welcome  sound.  As  I  returned  to 
camp  at  twilight,  along  the  shore  of  the 
lake,  the  frogs  also  were  in  full  chorus. 
The  older  ones  ripped  out  their  responses 
117 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

to  each  other  with  terrific  force  and  volume. 
I  know  of  no  other  animal  capable  of  giving 
forth  so  much  sound,  in  proportion  to  its 
size,  as  a  frog.  Some  of  these  seemed  to 
bellow  as  loud  as  a  two-year-old  bull.  They 
were  of  immense  size,  and  very  abundant. 
No  frog-eater  had  ever  been  there.  Near 
the  shore  we  felled  a  tree  which  reached 
far  out  in  the  lake.  Upon  the  trunk  and 
branches  the  frogs  had  soon  collected  in 
large  numbers,  and  gamboled  and  splashed 
about  the  half-submerged  top,  like  a  parcel 
of  schoolboys,  making  nearly  as  much  noise. 

After  dark,  as  I  was  frying  the  fish,  a 
panful  of  the  largest  trout  was  accidentally 
capsized  in  the  fire.  With  rueful  counte- 
nances we  contemplated  the  irreparable  loss 
our  commissariat  had  sustained  by  this  mis- 
hap ;  but  remembering  there  was  virtue  in 
ashes,  we  poked  the  half-consumed  fish 
from  the  bed  of  coals  and  ate  them,  and 
they  were  good. 

We  lodged  that  night  on  a  brush-heap 
and  slept  soundly.  The  green,  yielding 
beech-twigs,  covered  with  a  buffalo  robe, 
were  equal  to  a  hair  mattress.  The  heat 
and  smoke  from  a  large  fire  kindled  in  the 
afternoon  had  banished  every  "  no-see-em  " 
118 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

from  the  locality,  and  in  the  morning  the 
sun  was  above  the  mountain  before  we 
awoke. 

I  immediately  started  again  for  the  inlet, 
and  went  far  up  the  stream  toward  its 
source.  A  fair  string  of  trout  for  breakfast 
was  my  reward.  The  cattle  with  the  bell 
were  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  where  they 
had  passed  the  night.  Most  of  them  were 
two-year-old  steers.  They  came  up  to  me 
and  begged  for  salt,  and  scared  the  fish  by 
their  importunities. 

We  finished  our  bread  that  morning,  and 
ate  every  fish  we  could  catch,  and  about 
ten  o'clock  prepared  to  leave  the  lake.  The 
weather  had  been  admirable,  and  the  lake 
was  a  gem,  and  I  would  gladly  have  spent 
a  week  in  the  neighborhood  ;  but  the  ques- 
tion of  supplies  was  a  serious  one,  and  would 
brook  no  delay. 

When  we  reached,  on  our  return,  the 
point  where  we  had  crossed  the  line  of 
marked  trees  the  day  before,  the  question 
arose  whether  we  should  still  trust  ourselves 
to  this  line,  or  follow  our  own  trail  back  to 
the  spring  and  the  battlement  of  rocks  on 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  thence  to  the 
rock  where  the  guide  had  left  us.  We  de- 
119 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

cided  in  favor  of  the  former  course.  After 
a  march  of  three  quarters  of  an  hour  the 
blazed  trees  ceased,  and  we  concluded  we 
were  near  the  point  at  which  we  had  parted 
with  the  guide.  So  we  built  a  fire,  laid 
down  our  loads,  and  cast  about  on  all  sides 
for  some  clew  as  to  our  exact  locality. 
Nearly  an  hour  was  consumed  in  this  man- 
ner and  without  any  result.  I  came  upon 
a  brood  of  young  grouse,  which  diverted  me 
for  a  moment.  The  old  one  blustered  about 
at  a  furious  rate,  trying  to  draw  all  attention 
to  herself,  while  the  young  ones,  which  were 
unable  to  fly,  hid  themselves.  She  whined 
like  a  dog  in  great  distress,  and  dragged 
herself  along  apparently  with  the  greatest 
difficulty.  As  I  pursued  her,  she  ran  very 
nimbly,  and  presently  flew  a  few  yards. 
Then,  as  I  went  on,  she  flew  farther  and 
farther  each  time,  till  at  last  she  got  up, 
and  went  humming  through  the  woods  as 
if  she  had  no  interest  in  them.  I  went 
back  and  caught  one  of  the  young,  which 
had  simply  squatted  close  to  the  leaves.  I 
took  it  up  and  set  it  on  the  palm  of  my 
hand,  which  it  hugged  as  closely  as  if  still 
upon  the  ground.  I  then  put  it  in  my  coat- 
sleeve,  when  it  ran  and  nestled  in  my  armpit. 

120 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

When  we  met  at  the  sign  of  the  smoke, 
opinions  differed  as  to  the  most  feasible 
course.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  we 
could  get  out  of  the  woods ;  but  we  wished 
to  get  out  speedily,  and  as  near  as  possible 
to  the  point  where  we  had  entered.  Half 
ashamed  of  our  timidity  and  indecision,  we 
finally  tramped  away  back  to  where  we  had 
crossed  the  line  of  blazed  trees,  followed 
our  old  trail  to  the  spring  on  the  top  of  the 
range,  and,  after  much  searching  and  scour- 
ing to  the  right  and  left,  found  ourselves  at 
the  very  place  we  had  left  two  hours  before. 
Another  deliberation  and  a  divided  council. 
But  something  must  be  done.  It  was  then 
mid-afternoon,  and  the  prospect  of  spending 
another  night  on  the  mountains,  without 
food  or  drink,  was  not  pleasant.  So  we 
moved  down  the  ridge.  Here  another  line 
of  marked  trees  was  found,  the  course  of 
which  formed  an  obtuse  angle  with  the  one 
we  had  followed.  It  kept  on  the  top  of  the 
ridge  for  perhaps  a  mile,  when  it  entirely 
disappeared,  and  we  were  as  much  adrift  as 
ever.  Then  one  of  the  party  swore  an  oath, 
and  said  he  was  going  out  of  those  woods, 
hit  or  miss,  and,  wheeling  to  the  right,  in- 
stantly plunged  over  the  brink  of  the  moun- 

121 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

tain.  The  rest  followed,  but  would  fain 
have  paused  and  ciphered  away  at  their  own 
uncertainties,  to  see  if  a  certainty  could  not 
be  arrived  at  as  to  where  we  would  come 
out.  But  our  bold  leader  was  solving  the 
problem  in  the  right  way.  Down  and  down 
and  still  down  we  went,  as  if  we  were  to 
bring  up  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  It 
was  by  far  the  steepest  descent  we  had 
made,  and  we  felt  a  grim  satisfaction  in 
knowing  that  we  could  not  retrace  our  steps 
this  time,  be  the  issue  what  it  might.  As 
we  paused  on  the  brink  of  a  ledge  of  rocks, 
we  chanced  to  see  through  the  trees  distant 
cleared  land.  A  house  or  barn  was  dimly 
descried.  This  was  encouraging;  but  we 
could  not  make  out  whether  it  was  on 
Beaver  Kill  or  Mill  Brook  or  Dry  Brook, 
and  did  not  long  stop  to  consider  where 
it  was.  We  at  last  brought  up  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  deep  gorge,  through  which  flowed 
a  rapid  creek  that  literally  swarmed  with 
trout.  But  we  were  in  no  mood  to  catch 
them,  and  pushed  on  along  the  channel  of 
the  stream,  sometimes  leaping  from  rock  to 
rock,  and  sometimes  splashing  heedlessly 
through  the  water,  and  speculating  the 
while  as  to  where  we  should  probably  come 

122 


IX    THE  WOODS 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

out.  On  the  Beaver  Kill,  my  companions 
thought ;  but,  from  the  position  of  the  sun, 
I  said,  on  the  Mill  Brook,  about  six  miles 
below  our  team  ;  for  I  remembered  having 
seen,  in  coming  up  this  stream,  a  deep,  wild 
valley  that  led  up  into  the  mountains,  like 
this  one.  Soon  the  banks  of  the  stream 
became  lower,  and  we  moved  into  the  woods. 
Here  we  entered  upon  an  obscure  wood- 
road,  which  presently  conducted  us  into  the 
midst  of  a  vast  hemlock  forest.  The  land 
had  a  gentle  slope,  and  we  wondered  why 
the  lumbermen  and  barkmen  who  prowl 
through  these  woods  had  left  this  fine  tract 
untouched.  Beyond  this  the  forest  was 
mostly  birch  and  maple. 

We  were  now  close  to  the  settlement,  and 
began  to  hear  human  sounds.  One  rod 
more,  and  we  were  out  of  the  woods.  It 
took  us  a  moment  to  comprehend  the  scene. 
Things  looked  very  strange  at  first ;  but 
quickly  they  began  to  change  and  to  put  on 
familiar  features.  Some  magic  scene-shift- 
ing seemed  to  take  place  before  my  eyes, 
till,  instead  of  the  unknown  settlement 
which  I  at  first  seemed  to  look  upon,  there 
stood  the  farmhouse  at  which  we  had 
stopped  two  days  before,  and  at  the  same 
123 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

moment  we  heard  the  stamping  of  our  team 
in  the  barn.  We  sat  down  and  laughed 
heartily  over  our  good  luck.  Our  desperate 
venture  had  resulted  better  than  we  had 
dared  to  hope,  and  had  shamed  our  wisest 
plans.  At  the  house  our  arrival  had  been 
anticipated  about  this  time,  and  dinner  was 
being  put  upon  the  table. 

It  was  then  five  o'clock,  so  that  we  had 
been  in  the  woods  just  forty-eight  hours ; 
but  if  time  is  only  phenomenal,  as  the  phi- 
losophers say,  and  life  only  in  feeling,  as  the 
poets  aver,  we  were  some  months,  if  not 
years,  older  at  that  moment  than  we  had 
been  two  days  before.  Yet  younger,  too, 
—  though  this  be  a  paradox, — for  the 
birches  had  infused  into  us  some  of  their 
own  suppleness  and  strength. 
124 


VI 

A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS 
FRAGRANT   WILD   FLOWERS 

THE  charge  that  was  long  ago  made 
against  our  wild  flowers  by  English  travel- 
ers in  this  country,  namely,  that  they  were 
odorless,  doubtless  had  its  origin  in  the  fact 
that,  whereas  in  England  the  sweet-scented 
flowers  are  among  the  most  common  and 
conspicuous,  in  this  country  they  are  rather 
shy  and  withdrawn,  and  consequently  not 
such  as  travelers  would  be  likely  to  en- 
counter. Moreover,  the  British  traveler, 
remembering  the  deliciously  fragrant  blue 
violets  he  left  at  home,  covering  every 
grassy  slope  and  meadow  bank  in  spring, 
and  the  wild  clematis,  or  traveler's  joy, 
overrunning  hedges  and  old  walls  with  its 
white,  sweet-scented  blossoms,  and  finding 
the  corresponding  species  here  equally  abun- 
dant but  entirely  scentless,  very  naturally 
inferred  that  our  wild  flowers  were  all  de- 
ficient in  this  respect.  He  would  be  con- 
"5 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

firmed  in  this  opinion  when,  on  turning  to 
some  of  our  most  beautiful  and  striking 
native  flowers,  like  the  laurel,  the  rhododen- 
dron, the  columbine,  the  inimitable  fringed 
gentian,  the  burning  cardinal-flower,  or  our 
asters  and  goldenrod,  dashing  the  roadsides 
with  tints  of  purple  and  gold,  he  found 
them  scentless  also.  "  Where  are  your 
fragrant  flowers  ?  "  he  might  well  say ;  "  I 
can  find  none."  Let  him  look  closer  and 
penetrate  our  forests,  and  visit  our  ponds 
and  lakes.  Let  him  compare  our  matchless, 
rosy-lipped,  honey-hearted  trailing  arbutus 
with  his  own  ugly  ground-ivy ;  let  him  com- 
pare our  sumptuous,  fragrant  pond-lily  with 
his  own  odorless  Nympk&a  alba.  In  pur 
Northern  woods  he  shall  find  the  floors 
carpeted  with  the  delicate  linnaea,  its  twin 
rose-colored  nodding  flowers  filling  the  air 
with  fragrance.  (I  am  aware  that  the  lin- 
naea is  found  in  some  parts  of  Northern 
Europe.)  The  fact  is,  we  perhaps  have  as 
many  sweet-scented  wild  flowers  as  Europe 
has,  only  they  are  not  quite  so  prominent 
in  our  flora,  nor  so  well  known  to  our  people 
or  to  our  poets. 

Think  of  Wordsworth's  "  Golden  Daffo- 
dils : "  — 

126 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

"  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

"  Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay. 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance." 

No  such  sight  could  greet  the  poet's  eye 
here.  He  might  see  ten  thousand  marsh 
marigolds,  or  ten  times  ten  thousand  hous- 
tonias,  but  they  would  not  toss  in  the  breeze, 
and  they  would  not  be  sweet-scented  like 
the  daffodils. 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  too,  that  in  the 
moister  atmosphere  of  England  the  same 
amount  of  fragrance  would  be  much  more 
noticeable  than  with  us.  Think  how  our 
sweet  bay,  or  our  pink  azalea,  or  our  white 
alder,  to  which  they  have  nothing  that  cor- 
responds, would  perfume  that  heavy,  vapor- 
laden  air ! 

In  the  woods  and  groves  in  England,  the 

wild  hyacinth   grows   very   abundantly   in 

spring,  and  in  places  the  air  is  loaded  with 

its  fragrance.     In  our  woods  a  species  of 

127 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

dicentra,  commonly  called  squirrel  corn, 
has  nearly  the  same  perfume,  and  its  ra- 
cemes of  nodding  whitish  flowers,  tinged 
with  red,  are  quite  as  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
but  it  is  a  shyer,  less  abundant  plant.  When 
our  children  go  to  the  fields  in  April  and 
May,  they  can  bring  home  no  wild  flowers 
as  pleasing  as  the  sweet  English  violet,  and 
cowslip,  and  yellow  daffodil,  and  wallflower ; 
and  when  British  children  go  to  the  woods 
at  the  same  season,  they  can  load  their 
hands  and  baskets  with  nothing  that  com- 
pares with  our  trailing  arbutus,  or,  later 
in  the  season,  with  our  azaleas ;  and  when 
their  boys  go  fishing  or  boating  in  summer, 
they  can  wreathe  themselves  with  nothing 
that  approaches  our  pond-lily. 

There  are  upward  of  forty  species  of 
fragrant  native  wild  flowers  and  flowering 
shrubs  and  trees  in  New  England  and  New 
York,  and,  no  doubt,  many  more  in  the 
South  and  West.  My  list  is  as  follows  :  — 

White  violet  ( Viola  blanda). 
Canada  violet  (  Viola  Canadensis). 
Hepatica  (occasionally  fragrant). 
Trailing  arbutus  (Epigaa  refens). 
Mandrake  (Podophyllum  peltatum). 
Yellow  lady's-slipper  ( Cypripedium  parviflorum). 
Purple  lady's-slipper  (Cypripedium  acaule). 
128 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

Squirrel  corn  (Dicentra  Canadensis). 

Showy  orchis  (Orchis  spectabilis). 

Purple  fringed-orchis  (Habenaria  psycodes). 

Arethusa  (Arethusa  bulbosa). 

Calopogon  (Calopogon pulchellus). 

Lady's-tresses  (Spiranthes  cernua). 

Pond-lily  (Nymphaa  odorata). 

Wild  Rose  (Rosa  nitidd). 

Twin-flower  (Linncea  borealis"). 

Sugar  maple  (Acer  saccharinum). 

Linden  (  Tilia  Americana). 

Locust-tree  (Robinia  pseudacacid). 

White-alder  (Clethra  alnifolid). 

Smooth  azalea  (Rhododendron  arborescent}. 

White  azalea  (Rhododendron  viscosum). 

Pinxter-flower  (Rhododendron  nudiflorum). 

Yellow  azalea  (Rhododendron  calendulaceunt). 

Sweet  bay  (Magnolia  glauca). 

Mitchella  vine  (Mitchella  repens). 

Sweet  coltsfoot  (Petasites  palntatd). 

Pasture  thistle  (Cnicus pumilus"). 

False  wintergreen  (Pyrola  rotundifolid). 

Spotted  wintergreen  (Chimaphila  maculata). 

Prince's  pine  (Chimaphila  umbellata). 

Evening  primrose  (CEnothera  biennis). 

Hairy  loosestrife  (Steironema  ciliatum). 

Dogbane  (Apocynum). 

Ground-nut  (Apios  tuberosd). 

Adder's-tongue  pogonia  (Pogonia  ophioglossoides). 

Wild  grape  (Vitis  cordifolid). 

Horned  bladderwort  (  Utricularia  cornuta). 

The  last-named,  horned  bladderwort,  is 
perhaps  the  most  fragrant  flower  we  have. 
In  a  warm,  moist  atmosphere,  its  odor  is 
almost  too  strong.  It  is  a  plant  with  a 
slender,  leafless  stalk  or  scape  less  than  a 
129 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

foot  high,  with  two  or  more  large  yellow 
hood  or  helmet  shaped  flowers.  It  is  not 
common,  and  belongs  pretty  well  north, 
growing  in  sandy  swamps  and  along  the 
marshy  margins  of  lakes  and  ponds.  Its 
perfume  is  sweet  and  spicy  in  an  eminent 
degree.  I  have  placed  in  the  above  list 
several  flowers  that  are  intermittently  fra- 
grant, like  the  hepatica,  or  liver-leaf.  This 
flower  is  the  earliest,  as  it  is  certainly  one 
of  the  most  beautiful,  to  be  found  in  our 
woods,  and  occasionally  it  is  fragrant.  Group 
after  group  may  be  inspected  —  ranging 
through  all  shades  of  purple  and  blue,  with 
some  perfectly  white  —  and  no  odor  be  de- 
tected, when  presently  you  will  happen 
upon  a  little  brood  of  them  that  have  a 
most  delicate  and  delicious  fragrance.  The 
same  is  true  of  a  species  of  loosestrife  grow- 
ing along  streams  and  on  other  wet  places, 
with  tall  bushy  stalks,  dark  green  leaves, 
and  pale  axillary  yellow  flowers  (probably 
European).  A  handful  of  these  flowers 
will  sometimes  exhale  a  sweet  fragrance; 
at  other  times,  or  from  another  locality, 
they  are  scentless.  Our  evening  primrose 
is  thought  to  be  uniformly  sweet-scented, 
but  the  past  season  I  examined  many  speci- 
130 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

mens,  and  failed  to  find  one  that  was  so. 
Some  seasons  the  sugar  maple  yields  much 
sweeter  sap  than  at  others  ;  and  even  indi- 
vidual trees,  owing  to  the  soil,  moisture, 
etc.,  where  they  stand,  show  a  great  differ- 
ence in  this  respect.  The  same  is  doubtless 
true  of  the  sweet-scented  flowers.  I  had 
always  supposed  that  our  Canada  violet  — 
the  tall,  leafy-stemmed  white  violet  of  our 
Northern  woods  —  was  odorless,  till  a  cor- 
respondent called  my  attention  to  the  con- 
trary fact.  On  examination  I  found  that, 
while  the  first  ones  that  bloomed  about 
May  25  had  very  sweet-scented  foliage, 
especially  when  crushed  in  the  hand,  the 
flowers  were  practically  without  fragrance. 
But  as  the  season  advanced  the  fragrance 
developed,  till  a  single  flower  had  a  well- 
marked  perfume,  and  a  handful  of  them 
was  sweet  indeed.  A  single  specimen, 
plucked  about  August  I,  was  quite  as  fra- 
grant as  the  English  violet,  though  the  per- 
fume is  not  what  is  known  as  violet,  but, 
like  that  of  the  hepatica,  comes  nearer  to 
the  odor  of  certain  fruit-trees. 

It  is  only  for  a  brief  period  that  the  blos- 
soms of  our  sugar  maple  are  sweet-scented ; 
the  perfume  seems  to  become  stale  after  a 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

few  days :  but  pass  under  this  tree  just  at 
the  right  moment,  say  at  nightfall  on  the 
first  or  second  day  of  its  perfect  inflores- 
cence, and  the  air  is  loaded  with  its  sweet- 
ness ;  its  perfumed  breath  falls  upon  you 
as  its  cool  shadow  does  a  few  weeks  later. 

After  the  linnsea  and  the  arbutus,  the 
prettiest  sweet-scented  flowering  vine  our 
woods  hold  is  the  common  mitchella  vine, 
called  squaw-berry  and  partridge-berry.  It 
blooms  in  June,  and  its  twin  flowers,  light 
cream-color,  velvety,  tubular,  exhale  a  most 
agreeable  fragrance. 

Our  flora  is  much  more  rich  in  orchids 
than  the  European,  and  many  of  ours  are 
fragrant.  The  first  to  bloom  in  the  spring 
is  the  showy  orchis,  though  it  is  far  less 
showy  than  several  others.  I  find  it  in 
May,  not  on  hills,  where  Gray  says  it  grows, 
but  in  low,  damp  places  in  the  woods.  It 
has  two  oblong  shining  leaves,  with  a  scape 
four  or  five  inches  high  strung  with  sweet- 
scented,  pink-purple  flowers.  I  usually  find 
it  and  the  fringed  polygala  in  bloom  at  the 
same  time;  the  lady's-slipper  is  a  little 
later.  The  purple  fringed  orchis,  one  of 
the  most  showy  and  striking  of  all  our 
orchids,  blooms  in  midsummer  in  swampy 
132 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

meadows  and  in  marshy,  grassy  openings 
in  the  woods,  shooting  up  a  tapering  column 
or  cylinder  of  pink-purple  fringed  flowers, 
that  one  may  see  at  quite  a  distance,  and 
the  perfume  of  which  is  too  rank  for  a  close 
room.  This  flower  is,  perhaps,  like  the 
English  fragrant  orchis,  found  in  pastures. 
Few  fragrant  flowers  in  the  shape  of 
weeds  have  come  to  us  from  the  Old  World, 
and  this  leads  me  to  remark  that  plants  with 
sweet-scented  flowers  are,  for  the  most  part, 
more  intensely  local,  more  fastidious  and 
idiosyncratic,  than  those  without  perfume. 
Our  native  thistle  —  the  pasture  thistle  — 
has  a  marked  fragrance,  and  it  is  much  more 
shy  and  limited  in  its  range  than  the  com- 
mon Old  World  thistle  that  grows  every- 
where. Our  little  sweet  white  violet  grows 
only  in  wet  places,  and  the  Canada  violet 
only  in  high,  cool  woods,  while  the  common 
blue  violet  is  much  more  general  in  its  dis- 
tribution. How  fastidious  and  exclusive  is 
the  cypripedium !  You  will  find  it  in  one 
locality  in  the  woods,  usually  on  high,  dry 
ground,  and  will  look  in  vain  for  it  else- 
where. It  does  not  go  in  herds  like  the 
commoner  plants,  but  affects  privacy  and 
solitude.  When  I  come  upon  it  in  my 


A  YEAR  IN   THE  FIELDS 

walks,  I  seem  to  be  intruding  upon  some 
very  private  and  exclusive  company.  The 
large  yellow  cypripedium  has  a  peculiar, 
heavy,  oily  odor. 

In  like  manner  one  learns  where  to  look 
for  arbutus,  for  pipsissewa,  for  the  early 
orchis ;  they  have  their  particular  haunts, 
and  their  surroundings  are  nearly  always 
the  same.  The  yellow  pond-lily  is  found  in 
every  sluggish  stream  and  pond,  but  Nym- 
phcea  odorata  requires  a  nicer  adjustment 
of  conditions,  and  consequently  is  more  re- 
stricted in  its  range.  If  the  mullein  were 
fragrant,  or  toad-flax,  or  the  daisy,  or  blue- 
weed,  or  goldenrod,  they  would  doubtless 
be  far  less  troublesome  to  the  agriculturist. 
There  are,  of  course,  exceptions  to  the  rule 
I  have  here  indicated,  but  it  holds  in  most 
cases.  Genius  is  a  specialty  :  it  does  not 
grow  in  every  soil ;  it  skips  the  many  and 
touches  the  few ;  and  the  gift  of  perfume 
to  a  flower  is  a  special  grace  like  genius  or 
like  beauty,  and  never  becomes  common  or 
cheap. 

"Do  honey  and  fragrance  always  go  to- 
gether in  the  flowers  ?  "  Not  uniformly. 
Of  the  list  of  fragrant  wild  flowers  I  have 
given,  the  only  ones  that  the  bees  procure 


PICKING  WILD    FLOWERS 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

nectar  from,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  are 
arbutus,  dicentra,  sugar  maple,  locust,  and 
linden.  Non- fragrant  flowers  that  yield 
honey  are  those  of  the  raspberry,  clematis, 
sumac,  bugloss,  ailanthus,  goldenrod,  aster, 
fleabane.  A  large  number  of  odorless 
plants  yield  pollen  to  the  bee.  There  is 
nectar  in  the  columbine,  and  the  bumblebee 
sometimes  gets  it  by  piercing  the  spur  from 
the  outside,  as  she  does  with  the  dicentra. 
There  ought  to  be  honey  in  the  honey- 
suckle, but  I  have  never  seen  the  hive  bee 
make  any  attempt  to  get  it. 

WEEDS 

One  is  tempted  to  say  that  the  most 
human  plants,  after  all,  are  the  weeds. 
How  they  cling  to  man  and  follow  him 
around  the  world,  and  spring  up  wherever 
he  sets  his  foot !  How  they  crowd  around 
his  barns  and  dwellings,  and  throng  his  gar- 
den and  jostle  and  override  each  other  in 
their  strife  to  be  near  him  !  Some  of  them 
are  so  domestic  and  familiar,  and  so  harm- 
less withal,  that  one  comes  to  regard  them 
with  positive  affection.  Motherwort,  cat- 
nip, plantain,  tansy,  wild  mustard,  —  what 
a  homely  human  look  they  have !  they  are 


A   YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

an  integral  part  of  every  old  homestead. 
Your  smart  new  place  will  wait  long  before 
they  draw  near  it.  Our  knot-grass,  that 
carpets  every  old  dooryard,  and  fringes 
every  walk,  and  softens  every  path  that 
knows  the  feet  of  children,  or  that  leads  to 
the  spring,  or  to  the  garden,  or  to  the  barn, 
how  kindly  one  comes  to  look  upon  it !  Ex- 
amine it  with  a  pocket  glass  and  see  how 
wonderfully  beautiful  and  exquisite  are  its 
tiny  blossoms.  It  loves  the  human  foot, 
and  when  the  path  or  the  place  is  long  dis- 
used other  plants  usurp  the  ground. 

The  gardener  and  the  farmer  are  osten- 
sibly the  greatest  enemies  of  the  weeds, 
but  they  are  in  reality  their  best  friends. 
Weeds,  like  rats  and  mice,  increase  and 
spread  enormously  in  a  cultivated  country. 
They  have  better  food,  more  sunshine,  and 
more  aids  in  getting  themselves  dissemi- 
nated. They  are  sent  from  one  end  of  the 
land  to  the  other  in  seed  grain  of  various 
kinds,  and  they  take  their  share,  and  more 
too,  if  they  can  get  it,  of  the  phosphates 
and  stable  manures.  How  sure,  also,  they 
are  to  survive  any  war  of  extermination  that 
is  waged  against  them  !  In  yonder  field  are 
ten  thousand  and  one  Canada  thistles.  The 
136 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

farmer  goes  resolutely  to  work  and  destroys 
ten  thousand  and  thinks  the  work  is  finished, 
but  he  has  done  nothing  till  he  has  destroyed 
the  ten  thousand  and  one.  This  one  will 
keep  up  the  stock  and  again  cover  his  fields 
with  thistles. 

Weeds  are  Nature's  makeshift.  She  re- 
joices in  the  grass  and  the  grain,  but  when 
these  fail  to  cover  her  nakedness  she  re- 
sorts to  weeds.  It  is  in  her  plan  or  a  part 
of  her  economy  to  keep  the  ground  con- 
stantly covered  with  vegetation  of  some 
sort,  and  she  has  layer  upon  layer  of  seeds 
in  the  soil  for  this  purpose,  and  the  won- 
der is  that  each  kind  lies  dormant  until  it 
is  wanted.  If  I  uncover  the  earth  in  any 
of  my  fields,  ragweed  and  pigweed  spring 
up  ;  if  these  are  destroyed,  harvest  grass, 
or  quack  grass,  or  purslane  appears.  The 
spade  or  plow  that  turns  these  under  is  sure 
to  turn  up  some  other  variety,  as  chickweed, 
sheep-sorrel,  or  goose-foot.  The  soil  is  a 
storehouse  of  seeds. 

The  old  farmers  say  that  wood-ashes  will 
bring  in  the  white  clover,  and  it  will ;  the 
germs  are  in  the  soil  wrapped  in  a  profound 
slumber,  but  this  stimulus  tickles  them 
until  they  awake.  Stramonium  has  been 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

known  to  start  up  on  the  site  of  an  old  farm 
building,  when  it  had  not  been  seen  in  that 
locality  for  thirty  years.  I  have  been  told 
that  a  farmer,  somewhere  in  New  England, 
in  digging  a  well  came  at  a  great  depth 
upon  sand  like  that  of  the  seashore  ;  it  was 
thrown  out,  and  in  due  time  there  sprang 
from  it  a  marine  plant.  I  have  never  seen 
earth  taken  from  so  great  a  depth  that  it 
would  not  before  the  end  of  the  season  be 
clothed  with  a  crop  of  weeds.  Weeds  are 
so  full  of  expedients,  and  the  one  engross- 
ing purpose  with  them  is  to  multiply.  The 
wild  onion  multiplies  at  both  ends,  —  at  the 
top  by  seed,  and  at  the  bottom  by  offshoots. 
Toad-flax  travels  under  ground  and  above 
ground.  Never  allow  a  seed  to  ripen,  and 
yet  it  will  cover  your  field.  Cut  off  the 
head  of  the  wild  carrot,  and  in  a  week  or 
two  there  are  five  heads  in  room  of  this 
one ;  cut  off  these,  and  by  fall  there  are  ten 
looking  defiance  at  you  from  the  same  root. 
Plant  corn  in  August,  and  it  will  go  forward 
with  its  preparations  as  if  it  had  the  whole 
season  before  it.  Not  so  with  the  weeds  ; 
they  have  learned  better.  If  amaranth, 
or  abutilon,  or  burdock  gets  a  late  start, 
it  makes  great  haste  to  develop  its  seed ; 
138 


A   BUNCH   OF   HERBS 

it  foregoes  its  tall  stalk  and  wide  flaunt- 
ing growth,  and  turns  all  its  energies  into 
keeping  up  the  succession  of  the  species. 
Certain  fields  under  the  plow  are  always 
infested  with  "  blind  nettles,"  others  with 
wild  buckwheat,  black  blindweed,  or  cockle. 
The  seed  lies  dormant  under  the  sward,  the 
warmth  and  the  moisture  affect  it  not  until 
other  conditions  are  fulfilled. 

The  way  in  which  one  plant  thus  keeps 
another  down  is  a  great  mystery.  Germs 
lie  there  in  the  soil  and  resist  the  stimulat- 
ing effect  of  the  sun  and  the  rains  for  years, 
and  show  no  sign.  Presently  something 
whispers  to  them,  "  Arise,  your  chance  has 
come  ;  the  coast  is  clear ; "  and  they  are 
up  and  doing  in  a  twinkling. 

Weeds  are  great  travelers ;  they  are,  in- 
deed, the  tramps  of  the  vegetable  world. 
They  are  going  east,  west,  north,  south ; 
they  walk ;  they  fly ;  they  swim  ;  they  steal 
a  ride ;  they  travel  by  rail,  by  flood,  by  wind ; 
they  go  under  ground,  and  they  go  above, 
across  lots,  and  by  the  highway.  But,  like 
other  tramps,  they  find  it  safest  by  the 
highway  :  in  the  fields  they  are  intercepted 
and  cut  off ;  but  on  the  public  road,  every 
boy,  every  passing  drove  of  sheep  or  cows, 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

gives  them  a  lift.  Hence  the  incursion  of 
a  new  weed  is  generally  first  noticed  along 
the  highway  or  the  railroad.  In  Orange 
County  I  saw  from  the  car  window  a  field 
overrun  with  what  I  took  to  be  the  branch- 
ing white  mullein.  Gray  says  it  is  found 
in  Pennsylvania  and  at  the  head  of  Oneida 
Lake.  Doubtless  it  had  come  by  rail  from 
one  place  or  the  other.  Our  botanist  says 
of  the  bladder  campion,  a  species  of  pink, 
that  it  has  been  naturalized  around  Boston ; 
but  it  is  now  much  farther  west,  and  I  know 
fields  along  the  Hudson  overrun  with  it. 
Streams  and  watercourses  are  the  natural 
highway  of  the  weeds.  Some  years  ago, 
and  by  some  means  or  other,  the  viper's 
bugloss,  or  blueweed,  which  is  said  to  be 
a  troublesome  weed  in  Virginia,  effected 
a  lodgment  near  the  head  of  the  Esopus 
Creek,  a  tributary  of  the  Hudson.  From 
this  point  it  has  made  its  way  down  the 
stream,  overrunning  its  banks  and  invading 
meadows  and  cultivated  fields,  and  proving 
a  serious  obstacle  to  the  farmer.  All  the 
gravelly,  sandy  margins  and  islands  of  the 
Esopus,  sometimes  acres  in  extent,  are  in 
June  and  July  blue  with  it,  and  rye  and 
oats  and  grass  in  the  near  fields  find  it  a 
140 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

serious  competitor  for  possession  of  the  soil. 
It  has  gone  down  the  Hudson,  and  is  ap- 
pearing in  the  fields  along  its  shores.  The 
tides  carry  it  up  the  mouths  of  the  streams 
where  it  takes  root ;  the  winds,  or  the  birds, 
or  other  agencies,  in  time  give  it  another 
lift,  so  that  it  is  slowly  but  surely  making 
its  way  inland.  The  bugloss  belongs  to 
what  may  be  called  beautiful  weeds,  despite 
its  rough  and  bristly  stalk.  Its  flowers  are 
deep  violet-blue,  the  stamens  exserted,  as 
the  botanists  say,  that  is,  projected  beyond 
the  mouth  of  the  corolla,  with  showy  red 
anthers.  This  bit  of  red,  mingling  with 
the  blue  of  the  corolla,  gives  a  very  rich, 
warm  purple  hue  to  the  flower,  that  is  es- 
pecially pleasing  at  a  little  distance.  The 
best  thing  I  know  about  this  weed  besides 
its  good  looks  is  that  it  yields  honey  or 
pollen  to  the  bee. 

Another  foreign  plant  that  the  Esopus 
Creek  has  distributed  along  its  shores  and 
carried  to  the  Hudson  is  saponaria,  known 
as  "Bouncing  Bet."  It  is  a  common  and 
in  places  a  troublesome  weed  in  this  valley. 
Bouncing  Bet  is,  perhaps,  its  English  name, 
as  the  pink-white  complexion  of  its  flowers 
with  their  perfume  and  the  coarse,  robust 
141 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

character  of  the  plant  really  give  it  a  kind 
of  English  feminine  comeliness  and  bounce. 
It  looks  like  a  Yorkshire  housemaid.  Still 
another  plant  in  my  section,  which  I  notice 
has  been  widely  distributed  by  the  agency 
of  water,  is  the  spiked  loosestrife.  It  first 
appeared  many  years  ago  along  the  Wall- 
kill  ;  now  it  may  be  seen  upon  many  of  its 
tributaries  and  all  along  its  banks  ;  and  in 
many  of  the  marshy  bays  and  coves  along 
the  Hudson,  its  great  masses  of  purple-red 
bloom  in  middle  and  late  summer  affording 
a  welcome  relief  to  the  traveler's  eye.  It 
also  belongs  to  the  class  of  beautiful  weeds. 
It  grows  rank  and  tall,  in  dense  communities, 
and  always  presents  to  the  eye  a  generous 
mass  of  color.  In  places,  the  marshes  and 
creek  banks  are  all  aglow -with  it,  its  wand- 
like  spikes  of  flowers  shooting  up  and  unit- 
ing in  volumes  or  pyramids  of  still  flame. 
Its  petals,  when  examined  closely,  present 
a  curious  wrinkled  or  crumpled  appearance, 
like  newly-washed  linen ;  but  when  massed 
the  effect  is  eminently  pleasing.  It  also 
came  from  abroad,  probably  first  brought 
to  this  country  as  a  garden  or  ornamental 
plant. 

As  a  curious  illustration  of  how  weeds 
142 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

are  carried  from  one  end  of  the  earth  to  the 
other,  Sir  Joseph  Hooker  relates  this  cir- 
cumstance :  "  On  one  occasion,"  he  says, 
"landing  on  a  small  uninhabited  island 
nearly  at  the  Antipodes,  the  first  evidence 
I  met  with  of  its  having  been  previously 
visited  by  man  was  the  English  chickweed ; 
and  this  I  traced  to  a  mound  that  marked 
the  grave  of  a  British  sailor,  and  that  was 
covered  with  the  plant,  doubtless  the  off- 
spring of  seed  that  had  adhered  to  the  spade 
or  mattock  with  which  the  grave  had  been 
dug." 

Ours  is  a  weedy  country  because  it  is  a 
roomy  country.  Weeds  love  a  wide  margin, 
and  they  find  it  here.  You  shall  see  more 
weeds  in  one  day's  travel  in  this  country 
than  in  a  week's  journey  in  Europe.  Our 
culture  of  the  soil  is  not  so  close  and  thor- 
ough, our  occupancy  not  so  entire  and  ex- 
clusive. The  weeds  take  up  with  the  farm- 
ers' leavings,  and  find  good  fare.  One  may 
see  a  large  slice  taken  from  a  field  by  elecam- 
pane, or  by  teasle  or  milkweed ;  whole  acres 
given  up  to  whiteweed,  goldenrod,  wild  car- 
rots, or  the  ox-eye  daisy ;  meadows  overrun 
with  bear-weed,  and  sheep  pastures  nearly 
ruined  by  St.  John's-wort  or  the  Canada 


A  YEAR  IN   THE  FIELDS 

thistle.  Our  farms  are  so  large  and  our  hus- 
bandry so  loose  that  we  do  not  mind  these 
things.  By  and  by  we  shall  clean  them  out. 
When  Sir  Joseph  Hooker  landed  in  New 
England  a  few  years  ago,  he  was  surprised 
to  find  how  the  European  plants  flourished 
there.  He  found  the  wild  chicory  growing 
far  more  luxuriantly  than  he  had  ever  seen  it 
elsewhere,  "forming  a  tangled  mass  of  stems 
and  branches,  studded  with  turquoise-blue 
blossoms,  and  covering  acres  of  ground." 
This  is  one  of  the  many  weeds  that  Emer- 
son binds  into  a  bouquet  in  his  "  Humble- 
Bee:"- 

"  Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's  tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among." 

A  less  accurate  poet  than  Emerson  would 
probably  have  let  his  reader  infer  that  the 
bumblebee  gathered  honey  from  all  these 
plants,  but  Emerson  is  careful  to  say  only 
that  she  dwelt  among  them.  Succory  is 
one  of  Virgil's  weeds  also,  — 

"  And  spreading  succ'ry  chokes  the  rising  field." 

Is  there  not  something  in  our  soil   and 
climate  exceptionally  favorable  to  weeds,  — 
something  harsh,   ungenial,  sharp-toothed, 
144 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

that  is  akin  to  them  ?  How  woody  and 
rank  and  fibrous  many  varieties  become, 
lasting  the  whole  season,  and  standing  up 
stark  and  stiff  through  the  deep  winter 
snows, — desiccated,  preserved  by  our  dry 
air !  Do  nettles  and  thistles  bite  so  sharply 
in  any  other  country  ?  Let  the  farmer  tell 
you  how  they  bite  of  a  dry  midsummer  day 
when  he  encounters  them  in  his  wheat  or 
oat  harvest. 

Yet  it  is  a  fact  that  all  our  more  pernicious 
weeds,  like  our  vermin,  are  of  Old  World 
origin.  They  hold  up  their  heads  and  as- 
sert themselves  here,  and  take  their  fill  of 
riot  and  license ;  they  are  avenged  for  their 
long  years  of  repression  by  the  stern  hand 
of  European  agriculture.  We  have  hardly 
a  weed  we  can  call  our  own.  I  recall  but 
three  that  are  at  all  noxious  or  troublesome, 
namely,  milkweed,  ragweed,  and  goldenrod ; 
but  who  would  miss  the  last  from  our  fields 
and  highways  ? 

"  Along  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold 
That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  goldenrod," 

sings  Whittier.  In  Europe  our  goldenrod 
is  cultivated  in  the  flower  gardens,  as  well 
it  may  be.  The  native  species  is  found 


A   YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

mainly  in  woods,  and  is  much  less  showy 
than  ours. 

Our  milkweed  is  tenacious  of  life ;  its 
roots  lie  deep,  as  if  to  get  away  from  the 
plow,  but  it  seldom  infests  cultivated  crops. 
Then  its  stalk  is  so  full  of  milk  and  its  pod 
so  full  of  silk  that  one  cannot  but  ascribe 
good  intentions  to  it,  if  it  does  sometimes 
overrun  the  meadow. 

"  In  dusty  pods  the  milkweed 
Its  hidden  silk  has  spun," 

sings  "H.  H."  in  her  "  September." 

Of  our  ragweed  not  much  can  be  set  down 
that  is  complimentary,  except  that  its  name 
in  the  botany  is  Ambrosia,  food  of  the  gods. 
It  must  be  the  food  of  the  gods  if  anything, 
for,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  nothing  ter- 
restrial eats  it,  not  even  billy-goats.  (Yet 
a  correspondent  writes  me  that  in  Kentucky 
the  cattle  eat  it  when  hard-pressed,  and 
that  a  certain  old  farmer  there,  one  season 
when  the  hay  crop  failed,  cut  and  harvested 
tons  of  it  for  his  stock  in  winter.  It  is  said 
that  the  milk  and  butter  made  from  such 
hay  is  not  at  all  suggestive  of  the  traditional 
Ambrosia!)  It  is  the  bane  of  asthmatic 
patients,  but  the  gardener  makes  short 
work  of  it.  It  is  about  the  only  one  of  our 


A   FLOWER    IN    A  WOODLAND    ROADWAY 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 


weeds  that  follows  the  plow  and  the  har- 
row, and,  except  that  it  is  easily  destroyed,  I 
should  suspect  it  to  be  an  immigrant  from 
the  Old  World.  Our  fleabane  is  a  trouble- 
some weed  at  times,  but  good  husbandry 
has  little  to  dread  from  it. 

But  all  the  other  outlaws  of  the  farm  and 
garden  come  to  us  from  over  seas  ;  and 
what  a  long  list  it  is  :  — 


Common  thistle, 

Canada  thistle, 

Burdock, 

Yellow  dock, 

Wild  carrot, 

Ox-eye  daisy, 

Chamomile, 

Mullein, 

Dead-nettle  (Lamium), 

Hemp-nettle  (Galeopsis), 

Elecampane, 

Plantain, 

Motherwort, 

Stramonium, 

Catnip, 

Blue-weed, 

Stick-seed, 

Hound's-tongue, 

Henbane, 

Pigweed, 

Quitch  grass, 


Gill, 

Nightshade, 

Buttercup, 

Dandelion, 

Wild  mustard, 

Shepherd's  purse, 

St.  John's-wort, 

Chickweed, 

Purslane, 

Mallow, 

Darnel, 

Poison  hemlock, 

Hop-clover, 

Yarrow, 

Wild  radish, 

Wild  parsnip, 

Chicory, 

Live-forever, 

Toad-flax, 

Sheep-sorrel, 

Mayweed, 


and  others  less  noxious.     To  offset  this  list 

we  have  given  Europe  the  vilest  of  all  weeds, 

a  parasite  that  sucks  up  human  blood,  to- 

147 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

bacco.  Now  if  they  catch  the  Colorado 
beetle  of  us,  it  will  go  far  toward  paying 
them  off  for  the  rats  and  the  mice,  and  for 
other  pests  in  our  houses. 

The  more  attractive  and  pretty  of  the 
British  weeds  —  as  the  common  daisy,  of 
which  the  poets  have  made  so  much,  the 
larkspur,  which  is  a  pretty  cornfield  weed, 
and  the  scarlet  field-poppy,  which  flowers 
all  summer,  and  is  so  taking  amid  the  ripen- 
ing grain  —  have  not  immigrated  to  our 
shores.  Like  a  certain  sweet  rusticity  and 
charm  of  European  rural  life,  they  do  not 
thrive  readily  under  our  skies.  Our  flea- 
bane  has  become  a  common  roadside  weed 
in  England,  and  a  few  other  of  our  native 
less-known  plants  have  gained  a  foothold  in 
the  Old  World.  Our  beautiful  jewel-weed 
has  recently  appeared  along  certain  of  the 
English  rivers. 

Pokeweed  is  a  native  American,  and 
what  a  lusty,  royal  plant  it  is  !  It  never 
invades  cultivated  fields,  but  hovers  about 
the  borders  and  looks  over  the  fences  like  a 
painted  Indian  sachem.  Thoreau  coveted 
its  strong  purple  stalk  for  a  cane,  and  the 
robins  eat  its  dark  crimson-juiced  berries. 

It  is  commonly  believed  that  the  mullein 
148 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

is  indigenous  to  this  country,  for  have  we 
not  heard  that  it  is  cultivated  in  European 
gardens,  and  christened  the  American  vel- 
vet plant  ?  Yet  it,  too,  seems  to  have  come 
over  with  the  Pilgrims,  and  is  most  abundant 
in  the  older  parts  of  the  country.  It  abounds 
throughout  Europe  and  Asia,  and  had  its 
economic  uses  with  the  ancients.  The 
Greeks  made  lamp-wicks  of  its  dried  leaves, 
and  the  Romans  dipped  its  dried  stalk  in 
tallow  for  funeral  torches.  It  affects  dry 
uplands  in  this  country,  and,  as  it  takes 
two  years  to  mature,  it  is  not  a  troublesome 
weed  in  cultivated  crops.  The  first  year  it 
sits  low  upon  the  ground  in  its  coarse  flan- 
nel leaves,  and  makes  ready ;  if  the  plow 
comes  along  now,  its  career  is  ended.  The 
second  season  it  starts  upward  its  tall  stalk, 
which  in  late  summer  is  thickly  set  with 
small  yellow  flowers,  and  in  fall  is  charged 
with  myriads  of  fine  black  seeds.  "  As  full 
as  a  dry  mullein  stalk  of  seeds  "  is  almost 
equivalent  to  saying  "as  numerous  as  the 
sands  upon  the  seashore." 

Perhaps  the  most  notable  thing  about  the 
weeds  that  have  come  to  us  from  the  Old 
World,  when  compared  with  our  native  spe- 
cies, is  their  persistence,  not  to  say  pug- 
149 


A  YEAR  IN   THE  FIELDS 

nacity.  They  fight  for  the  soil ;  they  plant 
colonies  here  and  there,  and  will  not  be 
rooted  out.  Our  native  weeds  are  for  the 
most  part  shy  and  harmless,  and  retreat 
before  cultivation,  but  the  European  out- 
laws follow  man  like  vermin;  they  hang 
to  his  coat-skirts,  his  sheep  transport  them 
in  their  wool,  his  cow  and  horse  in  tail  and 
mane.  As  I  have  before  said,  it  is  as  with 
the  rats  and  mice.  The  American  rat  is  in 
the  woods  and  is  rarely  seen  even  by  wood- 
men, and  the  native  mouse  barely  hovers 
upon  the  outskirts  of  civilization ;  while 
the  Old  World  species  defy  our  traps  and 
our  poison,  and  have  usurped  the  land.  So 
with  the  weeds.  Take  the  thistle,  for.  in- 
stance,—  the  common  and  abundant  one 
everywhere,  in  fields  and  along  highways, 
is  the  European  species ;  while  the  native 
thistles,  swamp  thistle,  pasture  thistle,  etc., 
are  much  more  shy,  and  are  not  at  all  trou- 
blesome. The  Canada  thistle,  too,  which 
came  to  us  by  way  of  Canada,  —  what  a 
pest,  what  a  usurper,  what  a  defier  of  the 
plow  and  the  harrow !  I  know  of  but  one 
effectual  way  to  treat  it,  —  put  on  a  pair  of 
buckskin  gloves,  and  pull  up  every  plant 
that  shows  itself ;  this  will  effect  a  radical 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

cure  in  two  summers.  Of  course  the  plow 
or  the  scythe,  if  not  allowed  to  rest  more 
than  a  month  at  a  time,  will  finally  conquer 
it. 

Or  take  the  common  St.  John's-wort,  — 
how  has  it  established  itself  in  our  fields 
and  become  a  most  pernicious  weed,  very 
difficult  to  extirpate  ;  while  the  native  spe- 
cies are  quite  rare,  and  seldom  or  never  in- 
vade cultivated  fields,  being  found  mostly 
in  wet  and  rocky  waste  places.  Of  Old 
World  origin,  too,  is  the  curled-leaf  dock 
that  is  so  annoying  about  one's  garden  and 
home  meadows,  its  long  tapering  root  cling- 
ing to  the  soil  with  such  tenacity  that  I 
have  pulled  upon  it  till  I  could  see  stars 
without  budging  it ;  it  has  more  lives  than 
a  cat,  making  a  shift  to  live  when  pulled  up 
and  laid  on  top  of  the  ground  in  the  burning 
summer  sun.  Our  native  docks  are  mostly 
found  in  swamps,  or  near  them,  and  are 
harmless. 

Purslane  —  commonly  called  "pusley," 
and  which  has  given  rise  to  the  saying,  "  as 
mean  as  pusley  "  —  of  course  is  not  Ameri- 
can. A  good  sample  of  our  native  purslane 
is  the  claytonia,  or  spring  beauty,  a  shy, 
delicate  plant  that  opens  its  rose-colored 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

flowers  in  the  moist,  sunny  places  in  the 
woods  or  along  their  borders  so  early  in  the 
season. 

There  are  few  more  obnoxious  weeds  in 
cultivated  ground  than  sheep-sorrel,  also  an 
Old  World  plant ;  while  our  native  wood- 
sorrel,  —  belonging,  it  is  true,  to  a  different 
family  of  plants,  —  with  its  white,  delicately 
veined  flowers,  or  the  variety  with  yellow 
flowers,  is  quite  harmless.  The  same  is 
true  of  the  mallow,  the  vetch  or  tare,  and 
other  plants.  We  have  no  native  plant  so 
indestructible  as  garden  orpine,  or  live-for- 
ever, which  our  grandmothers  nursed  and 
for  which  they  are  cursed  by  many  a  farmer. 
The  fat,  tender,  succulent  dooryard  stripling 
turned  out  to  be  a  monster  that  would 
devour  the  earth.  I  have  seen  acres  of 
meadow  land  destroyed  by  it.  The  way  to 
drown  an  amphibious  animal  is  to  never 
allow  it  to  come  to  the  surface  to  breathe, 
and  this  is  the  way  to  kill  live-forever.  It 
lives  by  its  stalk  and  leaf,  more  than  by 
its  root,  and,  if  cropped  or  bruised  as  soon 
as  it  comes  to  the  surface,  it  will  in  time 
perish.  It  laughs  the  plow,  the  hoe,  the 
cultivator  to  scorn,  but  grazing  herds  will 
eventually  scotch  it.  Our  two  species  of 
152 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

native  orpine,  Sedum  ternatum  and  S.  tel~ 
ephioides,  are  never  troublesome  as  weeds. 

The  European  weeds  are  sophisticated, 
domesticated,  civilized ;  they  have  been  to 
school  to  man  for  many  hundred  years,  and 
they  have  learned  to  thrive  upon  him  :  their 
struggle  for  existence  has  been  sharp  and 
protracted ;  it  has  made  them  hardy  and 
prolific  ;  they  will  thrive  in  a  lean  soil,  or 
they  will  wax  strong  in  a  rich  one ;  in  all 
cases  they  follow  man  and  profit  by  him. 
Our  native  weeds,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
furtive  and  retiring;  they  flee  before  the 
plow  and  the  scythe,  and  hide  in  corners  and 
remote  waste  places.  Will  they,  too,  in 
time,  change  their  habits  in  this  respect  ? 

"Idle  weeds  are  fast  in  growth,"  says 
Shakespeare,  but  that  depends  upon  whe- 
ther the  competition  is  sharp  and  close. 
If  the  weed  finds  itself  distanced,  or  pitted 
against  great  odds,  it  grows  more  slowly 
and  is  of  diminished  stature,  but  let  it  once 
get  the  upper  hand  and  what  strides  it 
makes  !  Red  -  root  will  grow  four  or  five 
feet  high  if  it  has  a  chance,  or  it  will  con- 
tent itself  with  a  few  inches  and  mature  its 
seed  almost  upon  the  ground. 

Many  of  our  worst  weeds  are  plants  that 
'53 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

have  escaped  from  cultivation,  as  the  wild 
radish,  which  is  troublesome  in  parts  of 
New  England;  the  wild  carrot,  which  in- 
fests the  fields  in  eastern  New  York ;  and 
live-forever,  which  thrives  and  multiplies 
under  the  plow  and  harrow.  In  my  section 
an  annoying  weed  is  abutilon,  or  velvet-leaf, 
also  called  "old  maid,"  which  has  fallen 
from  the  grace  of  the  garden  and  followed 
the  plow  afield.  It  will  manage  to  mature 
its  seeds  if  not  allowed  to  start  till  mid- 
summer. 

Of  beautiful  weeds  quite  a  long  list  might 
be  made  without  including  any  of  the  so- 
called  wild  flowers.  A  favorite  of  mine  is 
the  little  moth  mullein  that  blooms  along 
the  highway,  and  about  the  fields,  and 
maybe  upon  the  edge  of  the  lawn,  from 
midsummer  till  frost  comes.  In  winter  its 
slender  stalk  rises  above  the  snow,  bearing 
its  round  seed-pods  on  its  pin-like  stems, 
and  is  pleasing  even  then.  Its  flowers  are 
yellow  or  white,  large,  wheel-shaped,  and 
are  borne  vertically  with  filaments  loaded 
with  little  tufts  of  violet  wool.  The  plant 
has  none  of  the  coarse,  hairy  character  of 
the  common  mullein.  Our  coneflower,  which 
one  of  our  poets  has  called  the  "brown- 
154 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS 

eyed  daisy,"  has  a  pleasing  effect  when  in 
vast  numbers  they  invade  a  meadow  (if  it 
is  not  your  meadow),  their  dark  brown 
centres  or  disks  and  their  golden  rays  show- 
ing conspicuously. 

Bidens,  two-teeth,  or  "  pitchforks,"  as  the 
boys  call  them,  are  welcomed  by  the  eye 
when  in  late  summer  they  make  the  swamps 
and  wet  waste  places  yellow  with  their 
blossoms. 

Vervain  is  a  beautiful  weed,  especially 
the  blue  or  purple  variety.  Its  drooping 
knotted  threads  also  make  a  pretty  etching 
upon  the  winter  snow. 

Iron -weed,  which  looks  like  an  over- 
grown aster,  has  the  same  intense  purple- 
blue  color,  and  a  royal  profusion  of  flowers. 
There  are  giants  among  the  weeds,  as  well 
as  dwarfs  and  pigmies.  One  of  the  giants 
is  purple  eupatorium,  which  sometimes  car- 
ries its  corymbs  of  flesh-colored  flowers  ten 
and  twelve  feet  high.  A  pretty  and  curious 
little  weed,  sometimes  found  growing  in  the 
edge  of  the  garden,  is  the  clasping  specu- 
laria,  a  relative  of  the  harebell  and  of  the 
European  Venus' s  looking-glass.  Its  leaves 
are  shell-shaped,  and  clasp  the  stalk  so  as 
to  form  little  shallow  cups.  In  the  bottom 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

of  each  cup  three  buds  appear  that  never 
expand  into  flowers ;  but  when  the  top  of 
the  stalk  is  reached,  one  and  sometimes 
two  buds  open  a  large,  delicate  purple-blue 
corolla.  All  the  first-born  of  this  plant  are 
still-born,  as  it  were ;  only  the  latest,  which 
spring  from  its  summit,  attain  to  perfect 
bloom.  A  weed  which  one  ruthlessly  de- 
molishes when  he  finds  it  hiding  from  the 
plow  amid  the  strawberries,  or  under  the 
currant-bushes  and  grapevines,  is  the  dan- 
delion ;  yet  who  would  banish  it  from  the 
meadows  or  the  lawns,  where  it  copies  in 
gold  upon  the  green  expanse  the  stars  of 
the  midnight  sky  ?  After  its  first  blooming 
comes  its  second  and  finer  and  more  spiritual 
inflorescence,  when  its  stalk,  dropping  its 
more  earthly  and  carnal  flower,  shoots  up- 
ward, and  is  presently  crowned  by  a  globe 
of  the  most  delicate  and  aerial  texture.  It 
is  like  the  poet's  dream,  which  succeeds 
his  rank  and  golden  youth.  This  globe  is 
a  fleet  of  a  hundred  fairy  balloons,  each  one 
of  which  bears  a  seed  which  it  is  destined 
to  drop  far  from  the  parent  source. 

Most  weeds  have  their  uses ;  they  are 
not  wholly  malevolent.     Emerson   says   a 
weed  is  a  plant  whose  virtues  we  have  not 
156 


A   BUNCH   OF  HERBS 

yet  discovered  ;  but  the  wild  creatures  dis- 
cover their  virtues  if  we  do  not.  The  bum- 
blebqg  has  discovered  that  the  hateful  toad- 
flax, which  nothing  will  eat,  and  which  in 
some  soils  will  run  out  the  grass,  has  honey 
at  its  heart.  Narrow  -  leaved  plantain  is 
readily  eaten  by  cattle,  and  the  honey-bee 
gathers  much  pollen  from  it.  The  ox-eye 
daisy  makes  a  fair  quality  of  hay  if  cut  be- 
fore it  gets  ripe.  The  cows  will  eat  the 
leaves  of  the  burdock  and  the  stinging 
nettles  of  the  woods.  But  what  cannot  a 
cow's  tongue  stand  ?  She  will  crop  the 
poison  ivy  with  impunity,  and  I  think  would 
eat  thistles  if  she  found  them  growing  in 
the  garden.  Leeks  and  garlics  are  readily 
eaten  by  cattle  in  the  spring,  and  are  said 
to  be  medicinal  to  them.  Weeds  that  yield 
neither  pasturage  for  bee  nor  herd,  yet 
afford  seeds  to  the  fall  and  winter  birds. 
This  is  true  of  most  of  the  obnoxious  weeds 
of  the  garden  and  of  thistles.  The  wild 
lettuce  yields  down  for  the  humming-bird's 
nest,  and  the  flowers  of  whiteweed  are  used 
by  the  kingbird  and  cedar-bird. 

Yet  it  is  pleasant  to  remember  that,  in 
our  climate,  there  are  no  weeds  so  persistent 
and  lasting  and  universal  as  grass.  Grass 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

is  the  natural  covering  of  the  fields.  There 
are  but  four  weeds  that  I  know  of  —  milk- 
weed, live-forever,  Canada  thistle,  and  toad- 
flax—  that  it  will  not  run  out  in  a  good 
soil.  We  crop  it  and  mow  it  year  after 
year ;  and  yet,  if  the  season  favors,  it  is 
sure  to  come  again.  Fields  that  have  never 
known  the  plow,  and  never  been  seeded  by 
man,  are  yet  covered  with  grass.  And  in 
human  nature,  too,  weeds  are  by  no  means 
in  the  ascendant,  troublesome  as  they  are. 
The  good  green  grass  of  love  and  truthful- 
ness and  common  sense  is  more  universal, 
and  crowds  the  idle  weeds  to  the  wall. 

But  weeds  have  this  virtue  :  they  are  not 
easily  discouraged ;  they  never  lose  heart 
entirely ;  they  die  game.  If  they  cannot 
have  the  best,  they  will  take  up  with  the 
poorest ;  if  fortune  is  unkind  to  them  to- 
day, they  hope  for  better  luck  to-morrow  ; 
if  they  cannot  lord  it  over  a  corn-hill,  they 
will  sit  humbly  at  its  foot  and  accept  what 
comes  ;  in  all  cases  they  make  the  most  of 
their  opportunities. 

158 


VII 

AUTUMN   TIDES 

THE  season  is  always  a  little  behind  the 
sun  in  our  climate,  just  as  the  tide  is  always 
a  little  behind  the  moon.  According  to  the 
calendar,  the  summer  ought  to  culminate 
about  the  2ist  of  June,  but  in  reality  it  is 
some  weeks  later ;  June  is  a  maiden  month 
all  through.  It  is  not  high  noon  in  nature 
till  about  the  first  or  second  week  in  July. 
When  the  chestnut-tree  blooms,  the  meri- 
dian of  the  year  is  reached.  By  the  first  of 
August  it  is  fairly  one  o'clock.  The  lustre 
of  the  season  begins  to  dim,  the  foliage  of 
the  trees  and  woods  to  tarnish,  the  plumage 
of  the  birds  to  fade,  and  their  songs  to  cease. 
The  hints  of  approaching  fall  are  on  every 
hand.  How  suggestive  this  thistle-down, 
for  instance,  which,  as  I  sit  by  the  open 
window,  comes  in  and  brushes  softly  across 
my  hand  !  The  first  snowflake  tells  of  win- 
ter not  more  plainly  than  this  driving  down 
heralds  the  approach  of  fall.  Come  here, 
my  fairy,  and  tell  me  whence  you  come  and 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

whither  you  go  ?  What  brings  you  to  port 
here,  you  gossamer  ship  sailing  the  great 
sea  ?  How  exquisitely  frail  and  delicate  ! 
One  of  the  lightest  things  in  nature;  so 
light  that  in  the  closed  room  here  it  will 
hardly  rest  in  my  open  palm.  A  feather  is 
a  clod  beside  it.  Only  a  spider's  web  will 
hold  it ;  coarser  objects  have  no  power  over 
it.  Caught  in  the  upper  currents  of  the  air 
and  rising  above  the  clouds,  it  might  sail 
perpetually.  Indeed,  one  fancies  it  might 
almost  traverse  the  interstellar  ether  and 
drive  against  the  stars.  And  every  thistle- 
head  by  the  roadside  holds  hundreds  of 
these  sky  rovers,  —  imprisoned  Ariels  un- 
able to  set  themselves  free.  Their  libera- 
tion may  be  by  the  shock  of  the  wind,  or 
the  rude  contact  of  cattle,  but  it  is  oftener 
the  work  of  the  goldfinch  with  its  complain- 
ing brood.  The  seed  of  the  thistle  is  the 
proper  food  of  this  bird,  and  in  obtaining  it 
myriads  of  these  winged  creatures  are  scat- 
tered to  the  breeze.  Each  one  is  fraught 
with  a  seed  which  it  exists  to  sow,  but  its 
wild  careering  and  soaring  does  not  fairly 
begin  till  its  burden  is  dropped,  and  its 
spheral  form  is  complete.  The  seeds  of 
many  plants  and  trees  are  disseminated 
160 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

through  the  agency  of  birds  ;  but  the  thistle 
furnishes  its  own  birds,  —  flocks  of  them, 
with  wings  more  ethereal  and  tireless  than 
were  ever  given  to  mortal  creature.  From 
the  pains  Nature  thus  takes  to  sow  the 
thistle  broadcast  over  the  land,  it  might  be 
expected  to  be  one  of  the  most  troublesome 
and  abundant  of  weeds.  But  such  is  not 
the  case ;  the  more  pernicious  and  baffling 
weeds,  like  snapdragon  or  blind  nettles, 
being  more  local  and  restricted  in  their 
habits,  and  unable  to  fly  at  all. 

In  the  fall  the  battles  of  the  spring  are 
fought  over  again,  beginning  at  the  other 
or  little  end  of  the  series.  There  is  the 
same  advance  and  retreat,  with  many  feints 
and  alarms,  between  the  contending  forces, 
that  was  witnessed  in  April  and  May.  The 
spring  comes  like  a  tide  running  against  a 
strong  wind  ;  it  is  ever  beaten  back,  but 
ever  gaining  ground,  with  now  and  then  a 
mad  "  push  upon  the  land  "  as  if  to  over- 
come its  antagonist  at  one  blow.  The  cold 
from  the  north  encroaches  upon  us  in  about 
the  same  fashion.  In  September  or  early 
in  October  it  usually  makes  a  big  stride 
forward  and  blackens  all  the  more  delicate 
plants,  and  hastens  the  "mortal  ripening" 
161 


A   YEAR  IN   THE  FIELDS 

of  the  foliage  of  the  trees,  but  it  is  presently 
beaten  back  again,  and  the  genial  warmth 
repossesses  the  land.  Before  long,  how- 
ever, the  cold  returns  to  the  charge  with 
augmented  forces  and  gains  much  ground. 

The  course  of  the  seasons  never  does  run 
smooth,  owing  to  the  unequal  distribution 
of  land  and  water,  mountain,  wood,  and 
plain. 

An  equilibrium,  however,  is  usually 
reached  in  our  climate  in  October,  some- 
times the  most  marked  in  November,  form- 
ing the  delicious  Indian  summer ;  a  truce 
is  declared,  and  both  forces,  heat  and  cold, 
meet  and  mingle  in  friendly  converse  on 
the  field.  In  the  earlier  season,  this  poise 
of  the  temperature,  this  slack-water  in  na- 
ture, comes  in  May  and  June  ;  but  the  Octo- 
ber calm  is  most  marked.  Day  after  day, 
and  sometimes  week  after  week,  you  cannot 
tell  which  way  the  current  is  setting.  In- 
deed, there  is  no  current,  but  the  season 
seems  to  drift  a  little  this  way  or  a  little 
that,  just  as  the  breeze  happens  to  freshen 
a  little  in  one  quarter  or  the  other.  The 
fall  of  '74  was  the  most  remarkable  in  this 
respect  I  remember  ever  to  have  seen.  The 
equilibrium  of  the  season  lasted  from  the 
162 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

middle  of  October  till  near  December,  with 
scarcely  a  break.  There  were  six  weeks  of 
Indian  summer,  all  gold  by  day,  and,  when 
the  moon  came,  all  silver  by  night.  The 
river  was  so  smooth  at  times  as  to  be  almost 
invisible,  and  in  its  place  was  the  indefinite 
continuation  of  the  opposite  shore  down 
toward  the  nether  world.  One  seemed  to 
be  in  an  enchanted  land  and  to  breathe  all 
day  the  atmosphere  of  fable  and  romance. 
Not  a  smoke,  but  a  kind  of  shining  nimbus 
filled  all  the  spaces.  The  vessels  would 
drift  by  as  if  in  mid-air  with  all  their  sails 
set.  The  gypsy  blood  in  one,  as  Lowell 
calls  it,  could  hardly  stay  between  four  walls 
and  see  such  days  go  by.  Living  in  tents, 
in  groves  and  on  the  hills,  seemed  the  only 
natural  life. 

Late  in  December  we  had  glimpses  of 
the  same  weather,  —  the  earth  had  not  yet 
passed  all  the  golden  isles.  On  the  2/th 
of  that  month,  I  find  I  made  this  entry  in 
my  note-book  :  "  A  soft,  hazy  day,  the  year 
asleep  and  dreaming  of  the  Indian  summer 
again.  Not  a  breath  of  air  and  not  a  ripple 
on  the  river.  The  sunshine  is  hot  as  it  falls 
across  my  table." 

But  what  a  terrible  winter  followed !  what 
163 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

a  savage  chief  the  fair  Indian  maiden  gave 
birth  to ! 

This  halcyon  period  of  our  autumn  will 
always  in  some  way  be  associated  with  the 
Indian.  It  is  red  and  yellow  and  dusky 
like  him.  The  smoke  of  his  camp-fire 
seems  again  in  the  air.  The  memory  of 
him  pervades  the  woods.  His  plumes  and 
moccasins  and  blanket  of  skins  form  just 
the  costume  the  season  demands.  It  was 
doubtless  his  chosen  period.  The  gods 
smiled  upon  him  then  if  ever.  The  time 
of  the  chase,  the  season  of  the  buck  and 
the  doe,  and  of  the  ripening  of  all  forest 
fruits  ;  the  time  when  all  men  are  incipient 
hunters,  when  the  first  frosts  have  given 
pungency  to  the  air,  when  to  be  abroad  on 
the  hills  or  in  the  woods  is  a  delight  that 
both  old  and  young  feel,  —  if  the  red  abori- 
gine ever  had  his  summer  of  fullness  and 
contentment,  it  must  have  been  at  this  sea- 
son, and  it  fitly  bears  his  name. 

In  how  many  respects  fall  imitates  or 
parodies  the  spring  !  It  is  indeed,  in  some 
of  its  features,  a  sort  of  second  youth  of 
the  year.  Things  emerge  and  become  con- 
spicuous again.  The  trees  attract  all  eyes 
as  in  May.  The  birds  come  forth  from 
164 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

their  summer  privacy  and  parody  their 
spring  reunions  and  rivalries  ;  some  of  them 
sing  a  little  after  a  silence  of  months.  The 
robins,  blue-birds,  meadow-larks,  sparrows, 
crows,  all  sport,  and  call,  and  behave  in  a 
manner  suggestive  of  spring.  The  cock 
grouse  drums  in  the  woods  as  he  did  in 
April  and  May.  The  pigeons  reappear, 
and  the  wild  geese  and  ducks.  The  witch- 
hazel  blooms.  The  trout  spawns.  The 
streams  are  again  full.  The  air  is  humid, 
and  the  moisture  rises  in  the  ground.  Na- 
ture is  breaking  camp,  as  in  spring  she  was 
going  into  camp.  The  spring  yearning  and 
restlessness  is  represented  in  one  by  the  in- 
creased desire  to  travel. 

Spring  is  the  inspiration,  fall  the  expira- 
tion. Both  seasons  have  their  equinoxes, 
both  their  filmy,  hazy  air,  their  ruddy  forest 
tints,  their  cold  rains,  their  drenching  fogs, 
their  mystic  moons  ;  both  have  the  same 
solar  light  and  warmth,  the  same  rays  of 
the  sun;  yet,  after  all,  how  different  the 
feelings  which  they  inspire  !  One  is  the 
morning,  the  other  the  evening;  one  is 
youth,  the  other  is  age. 

The  difference  is  not  merely  in  us  ;  there 
is  a  subtle  difference  in  the  air,  and  in  the 
'65 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

influences  that  emanate  upon  us  from  the 
dumb  forms  of  nature.  All  the  senses  re- 
port a  difference.  The  sun  seems  to  have 
burned  out.  One  recalls  the  notion  of 
Herodotus  that  he  is  grown  feeble,  and  re- 
treats to  the  south  because  he  can  no  longer 
face  the  cold  and  the  storms  from  the  north. 
There  is  a  growing  potency  about  his  beams 
in  spring,  a  waning  splendor  about  them  in 
fall.  One  is  the  kindling  fire,  the  other  the 
subsiding  flame. 

It  is  rarely  that  an  artist  succeeds  in 
painting  unmistakably  the  difference  be- 
tween sunrise  and  sunset ;  and  it  is  equally 
a  trial  of  his  skill  to  put  upon  canvas  the 
difference  between  early  spring  and  late 
fall,  say  between  April  and  November.  It 
was  long  ago  observed  that  the  shadows 
are  more  opaque  in  the  morning  than  in  the 
evening ;  the  struggle  between  the  light 
and  the  darkness  more  marked,  the  gloom 
more  solid,  the  contrasts  more  sharp,  etc. 
The  rays  of  the  morning  sun  chisel  out  and 
cut  down  the  shadows  in  a  way  those  of  the 
setting  sun  do  not.  Then  the  sunlight  is 
whiter  and  newer  in  the  morning,  —  not  so 
yellow  and  diffused.  A  difference  akin  to 
this  is  true  of  the  two  seasons  I  am  speak- 
166 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

ing  of.  The  spring  is  the  morning  sunlight, 
clear  and  determined;  the  autumn,  the 
afternoon  rays,  pensive,  lessening,  golden. 

Does  not  the  human  frame  yield  to  and 
sympathize  with  the  seasons  ?  v  Are  there 
not  more  births  in  the  spring  and  more 
deaths  in  the  fall  ?  In  the  spring  one  vege- 
tates ;  his  thoughts  turn  to  sap ;  another 
kind  of  activity  seizes  him  ;  he  makes  new 
wood  which  does  not  harden  till  past  mid- 
summer. For  my  part,  I  find  all  literary 
work  irksome  from  April  to  August ;  my 
sympathies  run  in  other  channels ;  the 
grass  grows  where  meditation  walked.  As 
fall  approaches,  the  currents  mount  to  the 
head  again.  But  my  thoughts  do  not  ripen 
well  till  after  there  has  been  a  frost.  The 
burrs  will  not  open  much  before  that.  A 
man's  thinking,  I  take  it,  is  a  kind  of  com- 
bustion, as  is  the  ripening  of  fruits  and 
leaves,  and  he  wants  plenty  of  oxygen  in 
the  air. 

Then  the  earth  seems  to  have  become 
a  positive  magnet  in  the  fall ;  the  forge 
and  anvil  of  the  sun  have  had  their  effect. 
In  the  spring  it  is  negative  to  all  intellec- 
tual conditions,  and  drains  one  of  his  light- 
ning. 

167 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

To-day,  October  2ist,  I  found  the  air  in 
the  bushy  fields  and  lanes  under  the  woods 
loaded  with  the  perfume  of  the  witch-hazel, 
—  a  sweetish,  sickening  odor.  With  the 
blooming  of  this  bush,  Nature  says,  "  Posi- 
tively the  last."  It  is  a  kind  of  birth  in 
death,  of  spring  in  fall,  that  impresses  one 
as  a  little  uncanny.  All  trees  and  shrubs 
form  their  flower-buds  in  the  fall,  and  keep 
the  secret  till  spring.  How  comes  the 
witch-hazel  to  be  the  one  exception,  and  to 
celebrate  its  floral  nuptials  on  the  funeral 
day  of  its  foliage  ?  No  doubt  it  will  be 
found  that  the  spirit  of  some  lovelorn  squaw 
has  passed  into  this  bush,  and  that  this  is 
why  it  blooms  in  the  Indian  summer  rather 
than  in  the  white  man's  spring. 

But  it  makes  the  floral  series  of  the  woods 
complete.  Between  it  and  the  shad-blow  of 
earliest  spring  lies  the  mountain  of  bloom ; 
the  latter  at  the  base  on  one  side,  this  at  the 
base  on  the  other,  with  the  chestnut  blos- 
soms at  the  top  in  midsummer. 

A  peculiar  feature  of  our  fall  may  some- 
times be  seen  of  a  clear  afternoon  late  in 
the  season.  Looking  athwart  the  fields 
under  the  sinking  sun,  the  ground  appears 
covered  with  a  shining  veil  of  gossamer.  A 
168 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

fairy  net,  invisible  at  midday  and  which  the 
position  of  the  sun  now  reveals,  rests  upon 
the  stubble  and  upon  the  spears  of  grass 
covering  acres  in  extent,  —  the  work  of  in- 
numerable little  spiders.  The  cattle  walk 
through  it,  'but  do  not  seem  to  break  it. 
Perhaps  a  fly  would  make  his  mark  upon  it. 
At  the  same  time,  stretching  from  the » tops 
of  the  trees,  or  from  the  top  of  a  stake  in 
the  fence,  and  leading  off  toward  the  sky, 
may  be  seen  the  cables  of  the  flying  spider, 
—  a  fairy  bridge  from  the  visible  to'the. in- 
visible. Occasionally  seen  against  a  deep 
mass  of  shadow,  and  perhaps  enlarged  by 
clinging  particles  of  dust,  they  show  quite 
plainly  and  sag  down  like  a  stretched  rope, 
or  sway  and  undulate  like  a  hawser  in  the 
tide. 

They  recall  a  verse  of  our  rugged  poet, 
Walt  Whitman  :  — 

"  A  noiseless  patient  spider, 

I  mark'd  where,  in  a  little  promontory,  it  stood  isolated: 
Mark'd  how,  to  explore  the  vacant,  vast  surrounding, 
It  launch'd  forth  filament,  filament,  filament  out  of  itself ; 
Ever  unreeling  them  —  ever  tirelessly  spreading  them. 

"  And  you,  O  my  soul,  where  you  stand, 
Surrounded,  surrounded,  in  measureless  oceans  of  space, 
Ceaselessly  musing,  venturing,  throwing,  — 
Seeking  the  spheres  to  connect  them ; 

169 


A   YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

Till  the  bridge  you  will  need  be  formed  —  till  the  ductile 

anchor  hold ; 
Till  the  gossamer  thread  you  fling,  catch  somewhere,  O  my 

soul." 

To  return  a  little,  September  may  be  de- 
scribed as  the  month  of  tall  weeds.  Where 
they  have  been  suffered  to  stand,  along 
fences,  by  roadsides,  and  in  forgotten  cor- 
ners, — •  redroot,  pigweed,  ragweed,  vervain, 
goldenrod,  burdock,  elecampane,  thistles, 
teasels,  nettles,  asters,  etc.,  —  how  they  lift 
themselves  up  as  if  not  afraid  to  be  seen  now ! 
They  are  all  outlaws ;  every  man's  hand  is 
against  them  ;  yet  how  surely  they  hold 
their  own  !  They  love  the  roadside,  because 
here  they  are  comparatively  safe ;  and  rag- 
ged and  dusty,  like  the  common  tramps 
that  they  are,  they  form  one  of  the  charac- 
teristic features  of  early  fall. 

I  have  often  noticed  in  what  haste  certain 
weeds  are  at  times  to  produce  their  seeds. 
Redroot  will  grow  three  or  four  feet  high 
when  it  has  the  whole  season  before  it ;  but 
let  it  get  a  late  start,  let  it  come  up  in  Au- 
gust, and  it  scarcely  gets  above  the  ground 
before  it  heads  out,  and  apparently  goes  to 
work  with  all  its  might  and  main  to  mature 
its  seed.  In  the  growth  of  most  plants  or 
weeds,  April  and  May  represent  their  root, 
170 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

June  and  July  their  stalk,  and  August  and 
September  their  flower  and  seed.  Hence, 
when  the  stalk  months  are  stricken  out,  as 
in  the  present  case,  there  is  only  time  for  a 
shallow  root  and  a  foreshortened  head.  I 
think  most  weeds  that  get  a  late  start  show 
this  curtailment  of  stalk,  and  this  solicitude 
to  reproduce  themselves.  But  I  have  not 
observed  that  any  of  the  cereals  are  so 
worldly  wise.  They  have  not  had  to  think 
and  shift  for  themselves  as  the  weeds  have. 
It  does  indeed  look  like  a  kind  of  forethought 
in  the  redroot.  It  is  killed  by  the  first  frost, 
and  hence  knows  the  danger  of  delay. 

How  rich  in  color,  before  the  big  show  of 
the  tree  foliage  has  commenced,  our  road- 
sides are  in  places  in  early  autumn,  —  rich 
to  the  eye  that  goes  hurriedly  by  and  does 
not  look  too  closely,  — with  the  profusion  of 
goldenrod  and  blue  and  purple  asters  dashed 
in  upon  here  and  there  with  the  crimson 
leaves  of  the  dwarf  sumac  ;  and  at  intervals, 
rising  out  of  the  fence  corner  or  crowning  a 
ledge  of  rocks,  the  dark  green  of  the  cedars 
with  the  still  fire  of  the  woodbine  at  its 
heart.  I  wonder  if  the  waysides  of  other 
lands  present  any  analogous  spectacles  at 
this  season. 

171 


A  YEAR  IN   THE  FIELDS 

Then,  when  the  maples  have  burst  out 
into  color,  showing  like  great  bonfires  along 
the  hills,  there  is  indeed  a  feast  for  the  eye. 
A  maple  before  your  windows  in  October, 
when  the  sun  shines  upon  it,  will  make  up 
for  a  good  deal  of  the  light  it  has  excluded ; 
it  fills  the  room  with  a  soft  golden  glow. 

Thoreau,  I  believe,  was  the  first  to  re- 
mark upon  the  individuality  of  trees  of  the 
same  species  with  respect  to  their  foliage, 
— some  maples  ripening  their  leaves  early 
and  some  late,  and  some  being  of  one  tint 
and  some  of  another;  and,  moreover,  that 
each  tree  held  to  the  same  characteristics, 
year  after  year.  There  is,  indeed,  as  great 
a  variety  among  the  maples  as  among  the 
trees  of  an  apple  orchard  ;  some  are  harvest 
apples,  some  are  fall  apples,  and  some  are 
winter  apples,  each  with  a  tint  of  its  own. 
Those  late  ripeners  are  the  winter  varieties, 
—  the  Rhode  Island  greenings  or  swaars 
of  their  kind.  The  red  maple  is  the  early 
astrachan.  Then  come  the  red-streak,  the 
yellow-sweet,  and  others.  There  are  wind- 
falls among  them,  too,  as  among  the  apples, 
and  one  side  or  hemisphere  of  the  leaf  is 
usually  brighter  than  the  other. 

The  ash  has  been  less  noticed  for  its 
172 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

autumnal  foliage  than  it  deserves.  The 
richest  shades  of  plum  color  to  be  seen  — 
becoming  by  and  by,  or  in  certain  lights,  a 
deep  maroon  —  are  afforded  by  this  tree. 
Then  at  a  distance  there  seems  to  be  a  sort 
of  bloom  on  it,  as  upon  the  grape  or  plum. 
Amid  a  grove  of  yellow  maple,  it  makes  a 
most  pleasing  contrast. 

By  mid-October,  most  of  the  Rip  Van 
Winkles  among  our  brute  creatures  have 
lain  down  for  their  winter  nap.  The  toads 
and  turtles  have  buried  themselves  in  the 
earth.  The  woodchuck  is  in  his  hibernacu- 
lum,  the  skunk  in  his,  the  mole  in  his ;  and 
the  black  bear  has  his  selected,  and  will  go 
in  when  the  snow  comes.  He  does  not  like 
the  looks  of  his  big  tracks  in  the  snow. 
They  publish  his  goings  and  comings  too 
plainly.  The  coon  retires  about  the  same 
time.  The  provident  wood-mice  and  the 
chipmunk  are  laying  by  a  winter  supply  of 
nuts  or  grain,  the  former  usually  in  decayed 
trees,  the  latter  in  the  ground.  I  have  ob- 
served that  any  unusual  disturbance  in  the 
woods,  near  where  the  chipmunk  has  his 
den,  will  cause  him  to  shift  his  quarters. 
One  October,  for  many  successive  days,  I 
saw  one  carrying  into  his  hole  buckwheat 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

which  he  had  stolen  from  a  near  field.  The 
hole  was  only  a  few  rods  from  where  we 
were  getting  out  stone,  and  as  our  work 
progressed,  and  the  racket  and  uproar  in- 
creased, the  chipmunk  became  alarmed. 
He  ceased  carrying  in,  and  after  much 
hesitating  and  darting  about,  and  some  pro- 
longed absences,  he  began  to  carry  out ;  he 
had  determined  to  move ;  if  the  mountain 
fell,  he,  at  least,  would  be  away  in  time. 
So,  by  mouthfuls  or  cheekfuls,  the  grain 
was  transferred  to  a  new  place.  He  did 
not  make  a  "  bee  "  to  get  it  done,  but  car- 
ried it  all  himself,  occupying  several  days, 
and  making  a  trip  about  every  ten  minutes. 
The  red  and  gray  squirrels  do  not  lay  by 
winter  stores  ;  their  cheeks  are  made  with- 
out pockets,  and  whatever  they  transport  is 
carried  in  the  teeth.  They  are  more  or  less 
active  all  winter,  but  October  and  Novem- 
ber are  their  festal  months.  Invade  some 
butternut  or  hickory-nut  grove  on  a  frosty 
October  morning,  and  hear  the  red  squirrel 
beat  the  "juba"  on  a  horizontal  branch. 
It  is  a  most  lively  jig,  what  the  boys  call 
a  "regular  break-down,"  interspersed  with 
squeals  and  snickers  and  derisive  laughter. 
The  most  noticeable  peculiarity  about  the 
174 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

vocal  part  of  it  is  the  fact  that  it  is  a  kind 
of  duet.  In  other  words,  by  some  ventrilo- 
quial  tricks,  he  appears  to  accompany  him- 
self, as  if  his  voice  split  up,  a  part  forming 
a  low  guttural  sound,  and  a  part'  a  shrill 
nasal  sound. 

The  distant  bark  of  the  more  wary  gray 
squirrel  may  be  heard  about  the  same  time. 
There  is  a  teasing  and  ironical  tone  in  it 
also,  but  the  gray  squirrel  is  not  the  Puck 
the  red  is. 

Insects  also  go  into  winter-quarters  by 
or  before  this  time ;  the  bumblebee,  hornet, 
and  wasp.  But  here  only  royalty  escapes  : 
the  queen-mother  alone  foresees  the  night 
of  winter  coming  and  the  morning  of  spring 
beyond.  The  rest  of  the  tribe  try  gypsying 
for  a  while,  but  perish  in  the  first  frosts. 
The  present  October  I  surprised  the  queen 
of  the  yellow-jackets  in  the  woods  looking 
out  a  suitable  retreat.  The  royal  dame 
was  house-hunting,  and,  on  being  disturbed 
by  my  inquisitive  poking  among  the  leaves, 
she  got  up  and  flew  away  with  a  slow,  deep 
hum.  Her  body  was  unusually  distended, 
whether  with  fat  or  eggs  I  am  unable  to 
say.  In  September  I  took  down  the  nest 
of  the  black  hornet  and  found  several  large 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

queens  in  it,  but  the  workers  had  all  gone. 
The  queens  were  evidently  weathering  the 
first  frosts  and  storms  here,  and  waiting 
for  the  Indian  summer  to  go  forth  and  seek 
a  permanent  winter  abode.  If  the  covers 
could  be  taken  off  the  fields  and  woods  at 
this  season,  how  many  interesting  facts  of 
natural  history  would  be  revealed! — the 
crickets,  ants,  bees,  reptiles,  animals,  and, 
for  aught  I  know,  the  spiders  and  flies 
asleep  or  getting  ready  to  sleep  in  their 
winter  dormitories ;  the  fires  of  life  banked 
up,  and  burning  just  enough  to  keep  the 
spark  over  till  spring. 

The  fish  all  run  down  the  stream  in  the 
fall  except  the  trout ;  it  runs  up  or  stays 
up  and  spawns  in  November,  the  male  be- 
coming as  brilliantly  tinted  as  the  deepest- 
dyed  maple  leaf.  I  have  often  wondered 
why  the  trout  spawns  in  the  fall,  instead  of 
in  the  spring  like  other  fish.  Is  it  not  be- 
cause a  full  supply  of  clear  spring  water  can 
be  counted  on  at  that  season  more  than  at 
any  other  ?  The  brooks  are  not  so  liable 
to  be  suddenly  muddied  by  heavy  showers, 
and  defiled  with  the  washings  of  the  roads 
and  fields,  as  they  are  in  spring  and  sum- 
mer. The  artificial  breeder  finds  that  ab- 
176 


AUTUMN  TIDES 

solute  purity  of  water  is  necessary  to  hatch 
the  spawn  ;  also  that  shade  and  a  low  tem- 
perature are  indispensable. 

Our  Northern  November  day  itself  is  like 
spring  water.  It  is  melted  frost,  dissolved 
snow.  There  is  a  chill  in  it  and  an  exhila- 
ration also.  The  forenoon  is  all  morning 
and  the  afternoon  all  evening.  The  shadows 
seem  to  come  forth  and  to  revenge  them- 
selves upon  the  day.  The  sunlight  is  diluted 
with  darkness.  The  colors  fade  from  the 
landscape,  and  only  the  sheen  of  the  river 
lights  up  the  gray  and  brown  distance. 
177 


VIII 

A  SHARP   LOOKOUT 

ONE  has  only  to  sit  down  in  the  woods 
or  fields,  or  by  the  shore  of  the  river  or 
lake,  and  nearly  everything  of  interest  will 
come  round  to  him,  —  the  birds,  the  animals, 
the  insects  ;  and  presently,  after  his  eye  has 
got  accustomed  to  the  place,  and  to  the  light 
and  shade,  he  will  probably  see  some  plant 
or  flower  that  he  had  sought  in  vain  for,  and 
that  is  a  pleasant  surprise  to  him.  So,  on  a 
large  scale,  the  student  and  lover  of  nature 
has  this  advantage  over  people  who  gad  up 
and  down  the  world,  seeking  some  novelty 
or  excitement ;  he  has  only  to  stay  at  home 
and  see  the  procession  pass.  The  great 
globe  swings  around  to  him  like  a  revolving 
showcase ;  the  change  of  the  seasons  is  like 
the  passage  of  strange  and  new  countries  ; 
the  zones  of  the  earth,  with  all  their  beauties 
and  marvels,  pass  one's  door  and  linger  long 
in  the  passing.  What  a  voyage  is  this  we 
make  without  leaving  for  a  night  our  own 
fireside  !  St.  Pierre  well  says  that  a  sense 
179 


A  YEAR  IN   THE  FIELDS 

of  the  power  and  mystery  of  nature  shall 
spring  up  as  fully  in  one's  heart  after  he 
has  made  the  circuit  of  his  own  field  as  after 
returning  from  a  voyage  round  the  world. 
I  sit  here  amid  the  junipers  of  the  Hudson, 
with  purpose  every  year  to  go  to  Florida,  or 
to  the  West  Indies,  or  to  the  Pacific  coast, 
yet  the  seasons  pass  and  I  am  still  loitering, 
with  a  half -defined  suspicion,  perhaps,  that, 
if  I  remain  quiet  and  keep  a  sharp  lookout, 
these  countries  will  come  to  me.  I  may 
stick  it  out  yet,  and  not  miss  much  after  all. 
The  great  trouble  is  for  Mohammed  to  know 
when  the  mountain  really  comes  to  him. 
Sometimes  a  rabbit  or  a  jay  or  a  little  war- 
bler brings  the  woods  to  my  door.  A  loon 
on  the  river,  and  the  Canada  lakes  are  here ; 
the  sea-gulls  and  the  fish  hawk  bring  the 
sea ;  the  call  of  the  wild  gander  at  night, 
what  does  it  suggest  ?  and  the  eagle  flapping 
by,  or  floating  along  on  a  raft  of  ice,  does 
not  he  bring  the  mountain?  One  spring 
morning  five  swans  flew  above  my  barn  in 
single  file,  going  northward,  —  an  express 
train  bound  for  Labrador.  It  was  a  more 
exhilarating  sight  than  if  I  had  seen  them 
in  their  native  haunts.  They  made  a  breeze 
in  my  mind,  like  a  noble  passage  in  a  poem. 
180 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

How  gently  their  great  wings  flapped  ;  how 
easy  to  fly  when  spring  gives  the  impulse ! 
On  another  occasion  I  saw  a  line  of  fowls, 
probably  swans,  going  northward,  at  such  a 
height  that  they  appeared  like  a  faint,  wav- 
ing black  line  against  the  sky.  They  must 
have  been  at  an  altitude  of  two  or  three 
miles.  I  was  looking  intently  at  the  clouds 
to  see  which  way  they  moved,  when  the 
birds  came  into  my  field  of  vision.  I  should 
never  have  seen  them  had  they  not  crossed 
the  precise  spot  upon  which  my  eye  was 
fixed.  As  it  was  near  sundown,  they  were 
probably  launched  for  an  all-night  pull. 
They  were  going  with  great  speed,  and  as 
they  swayed  a  little  this  way  and  that,  they 
suggested  a  slender,  all  but  invisible,  aerial 
serpent  cleaving  the  ether.  What  a  high- 
way was  pointed  out  up  there !  —  an  easy 
grade  from  the  Gulf  to  Hudson's  Bay. 

Then  the  typical  spring  and  summer  and 
autumn  days,  of  all  shades  and  complexions, 
—  one  cannot  afford  to  miss  any  of  them  ; 
and  when  looked  out  upon  from  one's  own 
spot  of  earth,  how  much  more  beautiful  and 
significant  they  are !  Nature  comes  home  to 
one  most  when  he  is  at  home ;  the  stranger 
and  traveler  finds  her  a  stranger  and  a  trav- 
181 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

eler  also.  One's  own  landscape  comes  in 
time  to  be  a  sort  of  outlying  part  of  himself ; 
he  has  sowed  himself  broadcast  upon  it,  and 
it  reflects  his  own  moods  and  feelings ;  he 
is  sensitive  to  the  verge  of  the  horizon  :  cut 
those  trees,  and  he  bleeds ;  mar  those  hills, 
and  he  suffers.  How  has  the  farmer  planted 
himself  in  his  fields ;  builded  himself  into 
his  stone  walls,  and  evoked  the  sympathy  of 
the  hills  by  his  struggle  !  This  home  feel- 
ing, this  domestication  of  nature,  is  impor- 
tant to  the  observer.  This  is  the  bird-lime 
with  which  he  catches  the  bird ;  this  is  the 
private  door  that  admits  him  behind  the 
scenes.  This  is  one  source  of  Gilbert  White's 
charm,  and  of  the  charm  of  Thoreau's 
"Walden." 

The  birds  that  come  about  one's  door  in 
winter,  or  that  build  in  his  trees  in  summer, 
what  a  peculiar  interest  they  have !  What 
crop  have  I  sowed  in  Florida  or  in  California, 
that  I  should  go  there  to  reap  ?  I  should 
be  only  a  visitor,  or  formal  caller  upon  na- 
ture, and  the  family  would  all  wear  masks. 
No  ;  the  place  to  observe  nature  is  where 
you  are ;  the  walk  to  take  to-day  is  the  walk 
you  took  yesterday.  You  will  not  find  just 
the  same  things  :  both  the  observed  and  the 
182 


ON  THE    EDGE    OF    A    CATSKILL    "SUGAR    BUSH" 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

observer  have  changed ;  the  ship  is  on  an- 
other tack  in  both  cases. 

I  shall  probably  never  see  another  just 
such  day  as  yesterday  was,  because  one  can 
never  exactly  repeat  his  observation,  —  can- 
not turn  the  leaf  of  the  book  of  life  back- 
ward, —  and  because  each  day  has  character- 
istics of  its  own.  This  was  a  typical  March 
day,  clear,  dry,  hard,  and  windy,  the  river 
rumpled  and  crumpled,  the  sky  intense, 
distant  objects  strangely  near  ;  a  day  full  of 
strong  light,  unusual ;  an  extraordinary  light- 
ness and  clearness  all  around  the  horizon, 
as  if  there  were  a  diurnal  aurora  streaming 
up  and  burning  through  the  sunlight ;  smoke 
from  the  first  spring  fires  rising  up  in  vari- 
ous directions, — a  day  that  winnowed  the 
air,  and  left  no  film  in  the  sky.  At  night, 
how  the  big  March  bellows  did  work ! 
Venus  was  like  a  great  lamp  in  the  sky. 
The  stars  all  seemed  brighter  than  usual,  as 
if  the  wind  blew  them  up  like  burning  coals. 
Venus  actually  seemed  to  flare  in  the  wind. 
Each  day  foretells  the  next,  if  one  could 
read  the  signs  ;  to-day  is  the  progenitor  of 
to-morrow.  When  the  atmosphere  is  tele- 
scopic, and  distant  objects  stand  out  unusu- 
ally clear  and  sharp,  a  storm  is  near.  We 
183 


A   YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

are  on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  and  the  de- 
pression follows  quickly.  It  often  happens 
that  clouds  are  not  so  indicative  of  a  storm 
as  the  total  absence  of  clouds.  In  this  state 
of  the  atmosphere  the  stars  are  unusually 
numerous  and  bright  at  night,  which  is  also 
a  bad  omen. 

I  find  this  observation  confirmed  by 
Humboldt.  "It  appears,"  he  says,  "that 
the  transparency  of  the  air  is  prodigiously 
increased  when  a  certain  quantity  of  water 
is  uniformly  diffused  through  it."  Again, 
he  says  that  the  mountaineers  of  the  Alps 
"  predict  a  change  of  weather  when,  the  air 
being  calm,  the  Alps  covered  with  perpetual 
snow  seem  on  a  sudden  to  be  nearer  the 
observer,  and  their  outlines  are  marked 
with  great  distinctness  on  the  azure  sky." 
He  further  observes  that  the  same  condition 
of  the  atmosphere  renders  distant  sounds 
more  audible. 

There  is  one  redness  in  the  east  in  the 
morning  that  means  storm,  another  that 
means  wind.  The  former  is  broad,  deep, 
and  angry  ;  the  clouds  look  like  a  huge  bed 
of  burning  coals  just  raked  open  ;  the  latter 
is  softer,  more  vapory,  and  more  widely  ex- 
tended. Just  at  the  point  where  the  sun  is 
184 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT 

going  to  rise,  and  some  minutes  in  advance 
of  his  coming,  there  sometimes  rises  straight 
upward  a  rosy  column  ;  it  is  like  a  shaft  of 
deeply  dyed  vapor,  blending  with  and  yet 
partly  separated  from  the  clouds,  and  the 
base  of  which  presently  comes  to  glow  like 
the  sun  itself.  The  day  that  follows  is 
pretty  certain  to  be  very  windy.  At  other 
times  the  under  sides  of  the  eastern  clouds 
are  all  turned  to  pink  or  rose-colored  wool ; 
the  transformation  extends  until  nearly  the 
whole  sky  flushes,  even  the  west  glowing 
slightly  ;  the  sign  is  always  to  be  interpreted 
as  meaning  fair  weather. 

The  approach  of  great  storms  is  seldom 
heralded  by  any  striking  or  unusual  phenom- 
enon. The  real  weather  gods  are  free  from 
brag  and  bluster  ;  but  the  sham  gods  fill  the 
sky  with  portentous  signs  and  omens.  I 
recall  one  5th  of  March  as  a  day  that  would 
have  filled  the  ancient  observers  with  dread- 
ful forebodings.  At  ten  o'clock  the  sun 
was  attended  by  four  extraordinary  sun-dogs. 
A  large  bright  halo  encompassed  him,  on 
the  top  of  which  the  segment  of  a  larger 
circle  rested,  forming  a  sort  of  heavy  bril- 
liant crown.  At  the  bottom  of  the  circle, 
and  depending  from  it,  was  a  mass  of  soft, 
185 


A  YEAR  IN   THE  FIELDS 

glowing,  iridescent  vapor.  On  either  side, 
like  fragments  of  the  larger  circle,  were  two 
brilliant  arcs.  Altogether,  it  was  the  most 
portentous  storm-breeding  sun  I  ever  beheld. 
In  a  dark  hemlock  wood  in  a  valley,  the 
owls  were  hooting  ominously,  and  the  crows 
dismally  cawing.  Before  night  the  storm 
set  in,  a  little  sleet  and  rain  of  a  few  hours' 
duration,  insignificant  enough  compared 
with  the  signs  and  wonders  that  preceded 
it. 

To  what  extent  the  birds  or  animals  can 
foretell  the  weather  is  uncertain.  When 
the  swallows  are  seen  hawking  very  high  it 
is  a  good  indication  ;  the  insects  upon  which 
they  feed  venture  up  there  only  in  the  most 
auspicious  weather.  Yet  bees  will  continue 
to  leave  the  hive  when  a  storm  is  imminent. 
I  am  told  that  one  of  the  most  reliable 
weather  signs  they  have  down  in  Texas  is 
afforded  by  the  ants.  The  ants  bring  their 
eggs  up  out  of  their  underground  retreats, 
and  expose  them  to  the  warmth  of  the  sun 
to  be  hatched.  When  they  are  seen  carry- 
ing them  in  again  in  great  haste,  though 
there  be  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  your  walk 
or  your  drive  must  be  postponed  :  a  storm 
is  at  hand.  There  is  a  passage  in  Virgil 
186 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

that  is  doubtless  intended  to  embody  a  simi- 
lar observation,  though  none  of  his  trans- 
lators seem  to  have  hit  its  meaning  accu- 
rately: — 

"  Saepius  et  tectis  penetralibus  extulit  ova 
Angustum  formica  terens  iter  : " 

"  Often  also  has  the  pismire  making  a  nar- 
row road  brought  forth  her  eggs  out  of  the 
hidden  recesses  "  is  the  literal  translation  of 
old  John  Martyn. 

"  Also  the  ant,  incessantly  traveling 
The  same  straight  way  with  the  eggs  of  her  hidden  store," 

is  one  of  the  latest  metrical  translations. 
Dryden  has  it :  — - 

"  The  careful  ant  her  secret  cell  forsakes 

And  drags  her  eggs  along  the  narrow  tracks," 

which  comes  nearer  to  the  fact.  When  a 
storm  is  coming,  Virgil  also  makes  his  swal- 
lows skim  low  about  the  lake,  which  agrees 
with  the  observation  above. 

The  critical  moments  of  the  day  as  re- 
gards the  weather  are  at  sunrise  and  sunset. 
A  clear  sunset  is  always  a  good  sign ;  an 
obscured  sun,  just  at  the  moment  of  going 
down  after  a  bright  day,  bodes  storm. 
There  is  much  truth,  too,  in  the  saying 
that  if  it  rain  before  seven,  it  will  clear  be- 


A  YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

fore  eleven.  Nine  times  in  ten  it  will  turn 
out  thus.  The  best  time  for  it  to  begin  to 
rain  or  snow,  if  it  wants  to  hold  out,  is 
about  mid-forenoon.  The  great  storms  usu- 
ally begin  at  this  time.  On  all  occasions 
the  weather  is  very  sure  to  declare  itself 
before  eleven  o'clock.  If  you  are  going  on 
a  picnic,  or  are  going  to  start  on  a  journey, 
and  the  morning  is  unsettled,  wait  till  ten 
and  one  half  o'clock,  and  you  shall  know 
what  the  remainder  of  the  day  will  be. 
Midday  clouds  and  afternoon  clouds,  except 
in  the  season  of  thunderstorms,  are  usually 
harmless  idlers  and  vagabonds.  But  more 
to  be  relied  on  than  any  obvious  sign  is 
that  subtle  perception  of  the  condition  of 
the  weather  which  a  man  has  who  spends 
much  of  his  time  in  the  open  air.  He  can 
hardly  tell  how  he  knows  it  is  going  to  rain  ; 
he  hits  the  fact  as  an  Indian  does  the  mark 
with  his  arrow,  without  calculating  and  by 
a  kind  of  sure  instinct.  As  you  read  a 
man's  purpose  in  his  face,  so  you  learn  to 
read  the  purpose  of  the  weather  in  the  face 
of  the  day. 

In  observing  the  weather,  however,  as  in 
the  diagnosis  of  disease,  the  diathesis  is  all- 
important.     All  signs  fail  in  a  drought,  be- 
188 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT 

cause  the  predisposition,  the  diathesis,  is 
so  strongly  toward  fair  weather ;  and  the 
opposite  signs  fail  during  a  wet  spell,  be- 
cause, nature  is  caught  in  the  other  rut. 

Observe  the  lilies  of  the  field.  Sir  John 
Lubbock  says  the  dandelion  lowers  itself 
after  flowering,  and  lies  close  to  the  ground 
while  it  is  maturing  its  seed,  and  then  rises 
up.  It  is  true  that  the  dandelion  lowers 
itself  after  flowering,  retires  from  society, 
as  it  were,  and  meditates  in  seclusion ;  but 
after  it  lifts  itself  up  again  the  stalk  begins 
anew  to  grow,  it  lengthens  daily,  keeping 
just  above  the  grass  till  the  fruit  is  ripened, 
and  the  little  globe  of  silvery  down  is  car- 
ried many  inches  higher  than  was  the  ring 
of  golden  flowers.  And  the  reason  is  obvi- 
ous. The  plant  depends  upon  the  wind  to 
scatter  its  seeds  ;  every  one  of  these  little 
vessels  spreads  a  sail  to  the  breeze,  and  it 
is  necessary  that  they  be  launched  above 
the  grass  and  weeds,  amid  which  they 
would  be  caught  and  held  did  the  stalk  not 
continue  to  grow  and  outstrip  the  rival 
vegetation.  It  is  a  curious  instance  of  fore- 
sight in  a  weed. 

I  wish  I  could  read  as  clearly  this  puzzle 
of  the  button-balls  (American  plane-tree). 
189 


A   YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

Why  has  Nature  taken  such  particular  pains 
to  keep  these  balls  hanging  to  the  parent 
tree  intact  till  spring  ?  What  secret  of  hers 
has  she  buttoned  in  so  securely  ?  for  these 
buttons  will  not  come  off.  The  wind  can- 
not twist  them  off,  nor  warm  nor  wet  hasten 
or  retard  them.  The  stem,  or  peduncle,  by 
which  the  ball  is  held  in  the  fall  and  winter, 
breaks  up  into  a  dozen  or  more  threads  or 
strands,  that  are  stronger  than  those  of 
hemp.  When  twisted  tightly  they  make  a 
little  cord  that  I  find  it  impossible  to  break 
with  my  hands.  Had  they  been  longer, 
the  Indian  would  surely  have  used  them  to 
make  his  bow-strings  and  all  the  other 
strings  he  required.  One  could  hang  him- 
self with  a  small  cord  of  them.  (In  South 
America,  Humboldt  saw  excellent  cordage 
made  by  the  Indians  from  the  petioles  of 
the  Chiquichiqui  palm.)  Nature  has  deter- 
mined that  these  buttons  should  stay  on. 
In  order  that  the  seeds  of  this  tree  may 
germinate,  it  is  probably  necessary  that 
they  be  kept  dry  during  the  winter,  and 
reach  the  ground  after  the  season  of  warmth 
and  moisture  is  fully  established.  In  May, 
just  as  the  leaves  and  the  new  balls  are 
emerging,  at  the  touch  of  a  warm,  moist 
190 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

south  wind,  these  spherical  packages  sud- 
denly go  to  pieces  —  explode,  in  fact,  like 
tiny  bombshells  that  were  fused  to  carry  to 
this  point  —  and  scatter  their  seeds  to  the 
four  winds.  They  yield  at  the  same  time 
a  fine  pollen-like  dust  that  one  would  sus- 
pect played  some  part  in  fertilizing  the  new 
balls,  did  not  botany  teach  him  otherwise. 
At  any  rate,  it  is  the  only  deciduous  tree  I 
know  of  that  does  not  let  go  the  old  seed 
till  the  new  is  well  on  the  way.  It  is  plain 
why  the  sugar-berry-tree  or  lotus  holds  its 
drupes  all  winter :  it  is  in  order  that  the 
birds  may  come  and  sow  the  seed.  The 
berries  are  like  small  gravel  stones  with  a 
sugar  coating,  and  a  bird  will  not  eat  them 
till  he  is  pretty  hard  pressed,  but  in  late 
fall  and  winter  the  robins,  cedar-birds,  and 
bluebirds  devour  them  readily,  and- of  course 
lend  their  wings  to  scatter  the  seed  far  and 
wide.  The  same  is  true  of  juniper-berries, 
and  the  fruit  of  the  bitter-sweet. 

In  certain  other  cases  where  the  fruit 
tends  to  hang  on  during  the  winter,  as  with 
the  bladder-nut  and  the  honey-locust,  it  is 
probably  because  the  frost  and  the  perpet- 
ual moisture  of  the  ground  would  rot  or  kill 
the  germ.  To  beechnuts,  chestnuts,  and 
191 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

acorns  the  moisture  of  the  ground  and  the 
covering  of  leaves  seem  congenial,  though 
too  much  warmth  and  moisture  often  cause 
the  acorns  to  germinate  prematurely.  I 
have  found  the  ground  under  the  oaks  in 
December  covered  with  nuts,  all  anchored 
to  the  earth  by  purple  sprouts.  But  the 
winter  which  follows  such  untimely  growths 
generally  proves  fatal  to  them. 

One  must  always  cross-question  nature  if 
he  would  get  at  the  truth,  and  he  will  not 
get  at  it  then  unless  he  frames  his  questions 
with  great  skill.  Most  persons  are  unreli- 
able observers  because  they  put  only  lead- 
ing questions,  or  vague  questions. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  the  operations 
of  nature  to  which  we  can  properly  apply 
the  term  intelligence,  yet  there  are  many 
things  that  at  first  sight  look  like  it.  Place 
a  tree  or  plant  in  an  unusual  position,  and  it 
will  prove  itself  equal  to  the  occasion,  and 
behave  in  an  unusual  manner ;  it  will  show 
original  resources  ;  it  will  seem  to  try  intel- 
ligently to  master  the  difficulties.  Up  by 
Furlow  Lake,  where  I  was  camping  out,  a 
young  hemlock  had  become  established  upon 
the  end  of  a  large  and  partly  decayed  log 
that  reached  many  feet  out  into  the  lake. 
192 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT 

The  young  tree  was  eight  or  nine  feet  high  ; 
it  had  sent  its  roots  down  into  the  log  and 
clasped  it  around  on  the  outside,  and  had 
apparently  discovered  that  there  was  water 
instead  of  soil  immediately  beneath  it,  and 
that  its  sustenance  must  be  sought  else- 
where and  that  quickly.  Accordingly  it 
had  started  one  large  root,  by  far  the  lar- 
gest of  all,  for  the  shore  along  the  top  of  the 
log.  This  root,  when  I  saw  the  tree,  was 
six  or  seven  feet  long,  and  had  bridged  more 
than  half  the  distance  that  separated  the 
tree  from  the  land. 

Was  this  a  kind  of  intelligence  ?  If  the 
shore  had  lain  in  the  other  direction,  no 
doubt  at  all  but  the  root  would  have  started 
for  the  other  side.  I  know  a  yellow  pine 
that  stands  on  the  side  of  a  steep  hill.  To 
make  its  position  more  secure,  it  has  thrown 
out  a  large  root  at  right  angles  with  its  stem 
directly  into  the  bank  above  it,  which  acts 
as  a  stay  or  guy-rope.  It  was  positively  the 
best  thing  the  tree  could  do.  The  earth 
has  washed  away  so  that  the  root  where  it 
leaves  the  tree  is  two  feet  above  the  surface 
of  the  soil. 

Yet  both  these  cases  are  easily  explained, 
and  without  attributing  any  power  of  choice, 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

or  act  of  intelligent  selection,  to  the  trees. 
In  the  case  of  the  little  hemlock  upon  the 
partly  submerged  log,  roots  were  probably 
thrown  out  equally  in  all  directions  ;  on  all 
sides  but  one  they  reached  the  water  and 
stopped  growing ;  the  water  checked  them  ; 
but  on  the  land  side,  the  root  on  the  top  of 
the  log,  not  meeting  with  any  obstacle  of 
the  kind,  kept  on  growing,  and  thus  pushing 
its  way  toward  the  shore.  It  was  a  case 
of  survival,  not  of  the  fittest,  but  of  that 
which  the  situation  favored,  —  the  fittest 
with  reference  to  position. 

So  with  the  pine-tree  on  the  side  of  the 
hill.  It  probably  started  its  roots  in  all  di- 
rections, but  only  the  one  on  the  upper  side 
survived  and  matured.  Those  on  the  lower 
side  finally  perished,  and  others  lower  down 
took  their  places.  Thus  the  whole  life  upon 
the  globe,  as  we  see  it,  is  the  result  of  this 
blind  groping  and  putting  forth  of  Nature 
in  every  direction,  with  failure  of  some  of 
her  ventures  and  the  success  of  others,  the 
circumstances,  the  environments,  supplying 
the  checks  and  supplying  the  stimulus,  the 
seed  falling  upon  the  barren  places  just  the 
same  as  upon  the  fertile.  No  discrimina- 
tion on  the  part  of  Nature  that  we  can  ex- 
194 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

press  in  the  terms  of  our  own  consciousness, 
but  ceaseless  experiments  in  every  possible 
direction.  The  only  thing  inexplicable  is 
the  inherent  impulse  to  experiment,  the 
original  push,  the  principle  of  Life. 

The  good  observer  of  nature  holds  his 
eye  long  and  firmly  to  the  point,  as  one 
does  when  looking  at  a  puzzle  picture,  and 
will  not  be  baffled.  The  cat  catches  the 
mouse,  not  merely  because  she  watches  for 
him,  but  because  she  is  armed  to  catch  him 
and  is  quick.  So  the  observer  finally  gets 
the  fact,  not  only  because  he  has  patience, 
but  because  his  eye  is  sharp  and  his  inference 
swift.  Many  a  shrewd  old  farmer  looks  upon 
the  milky  way  as  a  kind  of  weathercock,  and 
will  tell  you  that  the  way  it  points  at  night 
indicates  the  direction  of  the  wind  the  fol- 
lowing day.  So,  also,  every  new  moon  is 
either  a  dry  moon  or  a  wet  moon,  dry  if  a 
powder-horn  would  hang  upon  the  lower 
limb,  wet  if  it  would  not ;  forgetting  the 
fact  that,  as  a  rule,  when  it  is  dry  in  one 
part  of  the  continent  it  is  wet  in  some  other 
part,  and  vice  versa.  When  he  kills  his 
hogs  in  the  fall,  if  the  pork  be  very  hard  and 
solid  he  predicts  a  severe  winter ;  if  soft  and 
loose,  the  opposite ;  again  overlooking  the 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

fact  that  the  kind  of  food  and  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  fall  make  the  pork  hard  or  make 
it  soft.  So  with  a  hundred  other  signs,  all 
the  result  of  hasty  and  incomplete  observa- 
tions. 

One  season,  the  last  day  of  December 
was  very  warm.  The  bees  were  out  of  the 
hive,  and  there  was  no  frost  in  the  air  or  in 
the  ground.  I  was  walking  in  the  woods, 
when  as  I  paused  in  the  shade  of  a  hemlock- 
tree  I  heard  a  sound  proceed  from  beneath 
the  wet  leaves  on  the  ground  but  a  few  feet 
from  me  that  suggested  a  frog.  Following 
it  cautiously  up,  I  at  last  determined  upon 
the  exact  spot  from  whence  the  sound  is- 
sued ;  lifting  up  the  thick  layer  of  leaves, 
there  sat  a  frog  —  the  wood  frog,  one  of 
the  first  to  appear  in  the  marshes  in  spring, 
and  which  I  have  elsewhere  called  the 
"  clucking  frog  "  —  in  a  little  excavation  in 
the  surface  of  the  leaf-mould.  As  it  sat 
there  the  top  of  its  back  was  level  with  the 
surface  of  the  ground.  This,  then,  was  its 
hibernaculum ;  here  it  was  prepared  to  pass 
the  winter,  with  only  a  coverlid  of  wet 
matted  leaves  between  it  and  zero  weather. 
Forthwith  I  set  up  as  a  prophet  of  warm 
weather,  and  among  other  things  predicted 
I96 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT 

a  failure  of  the  ice  crop  on  the  river ;  which, 
indeed,  others,  who  had  not  heard  frogs 
croak  on  the  3ist  of  December,  had  also 
begun  to  predict.  Surely,  I  thought,  this 
frog  knows  what  it  is  about;  here  is  the 
wisdom  of  nature ;  it  would  have  gone 
deeper  into  the  ground  than  that  if  a  severe 
winter  was  approaching ;  so  I  was  not  anx- 
ious about  my  coal-bin,  nor  disturbed  by 
longings  for  Florida.  But  what  a  winter 
followed,  the  winter  of  1885,  when  the 
Hudson  became  coated  with  ice  nearly  two 
feet  thick,  and  when  March  was  as  cold  as 
January !  I  thought  of  my  frog  under  the 
hemlock  and  wondered  how  it  was  faring. 
So  one  day  the  latter  part  of  March,  when 
the  snow  was  gone,  and  there  was  a  feeling 
of  spring  in  the  air,  I  turned  aside  in  my 
walk  to  investigate  it.  The  matted  leaves 
were  still  frozen  hard,  but  I  succeeded  in 
lifting  them  up  and  exposing  the  frog. 
There  it  sat  as  fresh  and  unscathed  as  in 
the  fall.  The  ground  beneath  and  all  about 
it  was  still  frozen  like  a  rock,  but  apparently 
it  had  some  means  of  its  own  of  resisting 
the  frost.  It  winked  and  bowed  its  head 
when  I  touched  it,  but  did  not  seem  inclined 
to  leave  its  retreat.  Some  days  later,  after 
197 


A   YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

the  frost  was  nearly  all  out  of  the  ground, 
I  passed  that  way,  and  found  my  frog  had 
come  out  of  its  seclusion,  and  was  resting 
amid  the  dry  leaves.  There  was  not  much 
jump  in  it  yet,  but  its  color  was  growing 
lighter.  A  few  more  warm  days,  and  its 
fellows,  and  doubtless  itself  too,  were  croak- 
ing and  gamboling  in  the  marshes. 

This  incident  convinced  me  of  two  things  ; 
namely,  that  frogs  know  no  more  about  the 
coming  weather  than  we  do,  and  that  they 
do  not  retreat  as  deep  into  the  ground  to 
pass  the  winter  as  has  been  supposed.  I 
used  to  think  the  muskrats  could  foretell  an 
early  and  a  severe  winter,  and  have  so  writ- 
ten. But  I  am  now  convinced  they  cannot ; 
they  know  as  little  about  it  as  I  do.  Some- 
times on  an  early  and  severe  frost  they  seem 
to  get  alarmed  and  go  to  building  their 
houses,  but  usually  they  seem  to  build  early 
or  late,  high  or  low,  just  as  the  whim  takes 
them. 

In  most  of  the  operations  of  nature  there 
is  at  least  one  unknown  quantity ;  to  find 
the  exact  value  of  this  unknown  factor  is 
not  so  easy.  The  wool  of  the  sheep,  the 
fur  of  the  animals,  the  feathers  of  the  fowls, 
the  husks  of  the  maize,  why  are  they  thicker 
198 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

some  seasons  than  others  ;  what  is  the  value 
of  the  unknown  quantity  here  ?  Does  it 
indicate  a  severe  winter  approaching  ?  Only 
observations  extending  over  a  series  of  years 
could  determine  the  point.  How  much  pa- 
tient observation  it  takes  to  settle  many  of 
the  facts  in  the  lives  of  the  birds,  animals, 
and  insects  !  Gilbert  White  was  all  his  life 
trying  to  determine  whether  or  not  swallows 
passed  the  winter  in  a  torpid  state  in  the 
mud  at  the  bottom  of  ponds  and  marshes, 
and  he  died  ignorant  of  the  truth  that  they 
do  not.  Do  honey-bees  injure  the  grape 
and  other  fruits  by  puncturing  the  skin  for 
the  juice  ?  The  most  patient  watching  by 
many  skilled  eyes  all  over  the  country  has 
not  yet  settled  the  point.  For  my  own 
part,  I  am  convinced  that  they  do  not.  The 
honey-bee  is  not  the  rough-and-ready  free- 
booter that  the  wasp  and  bumblebee  are ; 
she  has  somewhat  of  feminine  timidity,  and 
leaves  the  first  rude  assaults  to  them.  I  knew 
the  honey-bee  was  very  fond  of  the  locust 
blossoms,  and  that  the  trees  hummed  like 
a  hive  in  the  height  of  their  flowering,  but 
I  did  not  know  that  the  bumblebee  was 
ever  the  sapper  and  miner  that  went  ahead 
in  this  enterprise,  till  one  day  I  placed  my- 
199 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

self  amid  the  foliage  of  a  locust  and  saw 
him  savagely  bite  through  the  shank  of  the 
flower  and  extract  the  nectar,  followed  by  a 
honey-bee  that  in  every  instance  searched 
for  this  opening,  and  probed  long  and  care- 
fully for  the  leavings  of  her  burly  purveyor. 
The  bumblebee  rifles  the  dicentra  and  the 
columbine  of  their  treasures  in  the  same 
manner,  namely,  by  slitting  their  pockets 
from  the  outside,  and  the  honey-bee  gleans 
after  him,  taking  the  small  change  he  leaves. 
In  the  case  of  the  locust,  however,  she  usu- 
ally obtains  the  honey  without  the  aid  of 
the  larger  bee. 

Speaking  of  the  honey-bee  reminds  me 
that  the  subtle  and  sleight-of-hand  manner 
in  which  she  fills  her  baskets  with  pollen 
and  propolis  is  characteristic  of  much  of 
Nature's  doings.  See  the  bee  going  from 
flower  to  flower  with  the  golden  pellets  on 
her  thighs,  slowly  and  mysteriously  increas- 
ing in  size.  If  the  miller  were  to  take  the 
toll  of  the  grist  he  grinds  by  gathering  the 
particles  of  flour  from  his  coat  and  hat,  as 
he  moved  rapidly  about,  or  catching  them 
in  his  pockets,  he  would  be  doing  pretty 
nearly  what  the  bee  does.  The  little  miller 
dusts  herself  with  the  pollen  of  the  flower, 
200 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

and  then,  while  on  the  wing,  brushes  it  off 
with  the  fine  brush  on  certain  of  her  feet, 
and  by  some  jugglery  or  other  catches  it  in 
her  pollen  basket.  One  needs  to  look  long 
and  intently  to  see  through  the  trick.  Pliny 
says  they  fill  their  baskets  with  their  fore 
feet,  and  that  they  fill  their  fore  feet  with 
their  trunks,  but  it  is  a  much  more  subtle 
operation  than  this.  I  have  seen  the  bees 
come  to  a  meal  barrel  in  early  spring,  and 
to  a  pile  of  hardwood  sawdust  before  there 
was  yet  anything  in  nature  for  them  to 
work  upon,  and,  having  dusted  their  coats 
with  the  finer  particles  of  the  meal  or  the 
sawdust,  hover  on  the  wing  above  the  mass 
till  the  little  legerdemain  feat  is  performed. 
Nature  fills  her  baskets  by  the  same  sleight- 
of-hand,  and  the  observer  must  be  on  the 
alert  who  would  possess  her  secret.  If  the 
ancients  had  looked  a  little  closer  and 
sharper,  would  they  ever  have  believed  in 
spontaneous  generation  in  the  superficial 
way  in  which  they  did ;  that  maggots,  for 
instance,  were  generated  spontaneously  in 
putrid  flesh  ?  Could  they  not  see  the  spawn 
of  the  blow-flies  ?  Or,  if  Virgil  had  been 
a  real  observer  of  the  bees,  would  he  ever 
have  credited,  as  he  certainly  appears  to 
201 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

do,  the  fable  of  bees  originating  from  the 
carcass  of  a  steer  ?  or  that  on  windy  days 
they  carried  little  stones  for  ballast  ?  or  that 
two  hostile  swarms  fought  each  other  in  the 
air?  Indeed,  the  ignorance,  or  the  false 
science,  of  the  ancient  observers,  with  re- 
gard to  the  whole  subject  of  bees,  is  most 
remarkable ;  not  false  science  merely  with 
regard  to  their  more  hidden  operations,  but 
with  regard  to  that  which  is  open  and  patent 
to  all  who  have  eyes  in  their  heads,  and 
have  ever  had  to  do  with  them.  And  Pliny 
names  authors  who  had  devoted  their  whole 
lives  to  the  study  of  the  subject. 

But  the  ancients,  like  women  and  chil- 
dren, were  not  accurate  observers.  Just  at 
the  critical  moment  their  eyes  were  un- 
steady, or  their  fancy,  or  their  credulity,  or 
their  impatience,  got  the  better  of  them,  so 
that  their  science  was  half  fact  and  half 
fable.  Thus,  for  instance,  because  the  young 
cuckoo  at  times  appeared  to  take  the  head 
of  its  small  foster  mother  quite  into  its 
mouth  while  receiving  its  food,  they  believed 
that  it  finally  devoured  her.  Pliny,  who 
embodied  the  science  of  his  times  in  his 
natural  history,  says  of  the  wasp  that  it 
carries  spiders  to  its  nest,  and  then  sits 
202 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

upon  them  until  it  hatches  its  young  from 
them.  A  little  careful  observation  would 
have  shown  him  that  this  was  only  a  half 
truth;  that  the  whole  truth  was,  that  the 
spiders  were  entombed  with  the  egg  of  the 
wasp  to  serve  as  food  for  the  young  when 
the  egg  shall  have  hatched. 

What  curious  questions  Plutarch  dis- 
cusses, as,  for  instance,  "  What  is  the  reason 
that  a  bucket  of  water  drawn  out  of  a  well, 
if  it  stands  all  night  in  the  air  that  is  in  the 
well,  is  more  cold  in  the  morning  than  the 
rest  of  the  water  ? "  He  could  probably 
have  given  many  reasons  why  "  a  watched 
pot  never  boils."  The  ancients,  the  same 
author  says,  held  that  the  bodies  of  those 
killed  by  lightning  never  putrefy ;  that  the 
sight  of  a  ram  quiets  an  enraged  elephant ; 
that  a  viper  will  lie  stock  still  if  touched  by 
a  beechen  leaf ;  that  a  wild  bull  grows  tame 
if  bound  with  the  twigs  of  a  fig-tree  ;  that  a 
hen  purifies  herself  with  straw  after  she  has 
laid  an  egg ;  that  the  deer  buries  his  cast- 
off  horns  ;  that  a  goat  stops  the  whole  herd 
by  holding  a  branch  of  the  sea-holly  in  his 
mouth,  etc.  They  sought  to  account  for 
such  things  without  stopping  to  ask,  Are 
they  true  ?  Nature  was  too  novel,  or  else 
203 


A   YEAR  IN   THE   FIELDS 

too  fearful,  to  them  to  be  deliberately  pur- 
sued and  hunted  down.  Their  youthful  joy 
in  her,  or  their  dread  and  awe  in  her 
presence,  may  be  better  than  our  scientific 
satisfaction,  or  cool  wonder,  or  our  vague, 
mysterious  sense  of  "  something  far  more 
deeply  interfused ; "  yet  we  cannot  change 
with  them  if  we  would,  and  I,  for  one,  would 
not  if  I  could.  Science  does  not  mar  na- 
ture. The  railroad,  Thoreau  found,  after 
all,  to  be  about  the  wildest  road  he  knew 
of,  and  the  telegraph  wires  the  best  aeolian 
harp  out  of  doors.  Study  of  nature  deepens 
the  mystery  and  the  charm  because  it  re- 
moves the  horizon  farther  off.  We  cease 
to  fear,  perhaps,  but  how  can  one  cease  to 
marvel  and  to  love  ? 

The  fields  and  woods  and  waters  about 
one  are  a  book  from  which  he  may  draw 
exhaustless  entertainment,  if  he  will.  One 
must  not  only  learn  the  writing,  he  must 
translate  the  language,  the  signs,  and  the 
hieroglyphics.  It  is  a  very  quaint  and 
elliptical  writing,  and  much  must  be  sup- 
plied by  the  wit  of  the  translator.  At  any 
rate,  the  lesson  is  to  be  well  conned.  Gil- 
bert White  said  that  that  locality  would  be 
found  the  richest  in  zoological  or  botanical 
204 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

specimens  which  was  most  thoroughly  ex- 
amined. For  more  than  forty  years  he 
studied  the  ornithology  of  his  district  with- 
out exhausting  the  subject.  I  thought  I 
knew  my  own  tramping  ground  pretty  well, 
but  one  April  day,  when  I  looked  a  little 
closer  than  usual  into  a  small  semi-stagnant 
lakelet  where  I  had  peered  a  hundred  times 
before,  I  suddenly  discovered  scores  of  lit- 
tle creatures  that  were  as  new  to  me  as  so 
many  nymphs  would  have  been.  They 
were  partly  fish-shaped,  from  an  inch  to  an 
inch  and  a  half  long,  semi-transparent,  with 
a  dark  brownish  line  visible  the  entire 
length  of  them  (apparently  the  thread  upon 
which  the  life  of  the  animal  hung,  and  by 
which  its  all  but  impalpable  frame  was  held 
together),  and  suspending  themselves  in 
the  water,  or  impelling  themselves  swiftly 
forward  by  means  of  a  double  row  of  fine, 
waving,  hair-like  appendages,  that  arose 
from  what  appeared  to  be  the  back,  — 
a  kind  of  undulating,  pappus -like  wings. 
What  was  it  ?  I  did  not  know.  None  of 
my  friends  or  scientific  acquaintances  knew. 
I  wrote  to  a  learned  man,  an  authority  upon 
fish,  describing  the  creature  as  well  as  I 
could.  He  replied  that  it  was  only  a  fa- 
205 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

miliar  species  of  phyllopodous  crustacean, 
known  as  Eubranchipus  vernalis. 

I  remember  that  our  guide  in  the  Maine 
woods,  seeing  I  had  names  of  my  own  for 
some  of  the  plants,  would  often  ask  me  the 
name  of  this  and  that  flower  for  which  he 
had  no  word  ;  and  that  when  I  could  recall 
the  full  Latin  term,  it  seemed  overwhelm- 
ingly convincing  and  satisfying  to  him.  It 
was  evidently  a  relief  to  know  that  these 
obscure  plants  of  his  native  heath  had  been 
found  worthy  of  a  learned  name,  and  that 
the  Maine  woods  were  not  so  uncivil  and 
outlandish  as  they  might  at  first  seem  :  it 
was  a  comfort  to  him  to  know  that  he  did 
not  live  beyond  the  reach  of  botany.  In 
like  manner  I  found  satisfaction  in  knowing 
that  my  novel  fish  had  been  recognized  and 
worthily  named ;  the  title  conferred  a  new 
dignity  at  once ;  but  when  the  learned  man 
added  that  it  was  familiarly  called  the  "  fairy 
shrimp,"  I  felt  a  deeper  pleasure.  Fairy-like 
it  certainly  was,  in  its  aerial,  unsubstantial 
look,  and  in  its  delicate,  down-like  means  of 
locomotion  ;  but  the  large  head,  with  its  curi- 
ous folds,  and  its  eyes  standing  out  in  relief, 
as  if  on  the  heads  of  two  pins,  were  gnome- 
like.  Probably  the  fairy  wore  a  mask,  and 
206 


BY  THE    STUDY  FIRE 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

wanted  to  appear  terrible  to  human  eyes. 
Then  the  creatures  had  sprung  out  of  the 
earth  as  by  magic.  I  found  some  in  a  fur- 
row in  a  plowed  field  that  had  encroached 
upon  a  swamp.  In  the  fall  the  plow  had 
been  there,  and  had  turned  up  only  the 
moist  earth ;  now  a  little  water  was  stand- 
ing there,  from  which  the  April  sunbeams 
had  invoked  these  airy,  fairy  creatures. 
They  belong  to  the  crustaceans,  but  appar- 
ently no  creature  has  so  thin  or  impalpable 
a  crust ;  you  can  almost  see  through  them  ; 
certainly  you  can  see  what  they  have  had 
for  dinner,  if  they  have  eaten  substantial 
food. 

All  we  know  about  the  private  and  essen- 
tial natural  history  of  the  bees,  the  birds, 
the  fishes,  the  animals,  the  plants,  is  the  re- 
sult of  close,  patient,  quick-witted  observa- 
tion. Yet  Nature  will  often  elude  one  for 
all  his  pains  and  alertness.  Thoreau,  as  re- 
vealed in  his  journal,  was  for  years  trying  to 
settle  in  his  own  mind  what  was  the  first 
thing  that  stirred  in  spring,  after  the  severe 
New  England  winter,  —  in  what  was  the 
first  sign  or  pulse  of  returning  life  manifest ; 
and  he  never  seems  to  have  been  quite  sure. 
He  could  not  get  his  salt  on  the  tail  of  this 
207 


A.  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

bird.  He  dug  into  the  swamps,  he  peered 
into  the  water,  he  felt  with  benumbed  hands 
for  the  radical  leaves  of  the  plants  under  the 
snow;  he  inspected  the  buds  on  the  wil- 
lows, the  catkins  on  the  alders ;  he  went  out 
before  daylight  of  a  March  morning  and 
remained  out  after  dark;  he  watched  the 
lichens  and  mosses  on  the  rocks  ;  he  listened 
for  the  birds ;  he  was  on  the  alert  for  the 
first  frog  ("  Can  you  be  absolutely  sure,"  he 
says,  "that  you  have  heard  the  first  frog 
that  croaked  in  the  township  ?  ") ;  he  stuck 
a  pin  here  and  he  stuck  a  pin  there,  and 
there,  and  still  he  could  not  satisfy  himself. 
Nor  can  any  one.  Life  appears  to  start  in 
several  things  simultaneously.  Of  a.  warm 
thawy  day  in  February  the  snow  is  suddenly 
covered  with  myriads  of  snow  fleas  looking 
like  black,  new  powder  just  spilled  there. 
Or  you  may  see  a  winged  insect  in  the  air. 
On  the  selfsame  day  the  grass  in  the  spring 
run  and  the  catkins  on  the  alders  will  have 
started  a  little;  and  if  you  look  sharply, 
while  passing  along  some  sheltered  nook  or 
grassy  slope  where  the  sunshine  lies  warm 
on  the  bare  ground,  you  will  probably  see  a 
grasshopper  or  two.  The  grass  hatches  out 
under  the  snow,  and  why  should  not  the 
208 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

grasshopper  ?  At  any  rate,  a  few  such  hardy 
specimens  may  be  found  in  the  latter  part 
of  our  milder  winters  wherever  the  sun  has 
uncovered  a  sheltered  bit  of  grass  for  a  few 
days,  even  after  a  night  of  ten  or  twelve  de- 
grees of  frost.  Take  them  in  the  shade, 
and  let  them  freeze  stiff  as  pokers,  and 
when  thawed  out  again  they  will  hop  briskly. 
And  yet,  if  a  poet  were  to  put  grasshoppers 
in  his  winter  poem,  we  should  require  pretty 
full  specifications  of  him,  or  else  fur  to 
clothe  them  with.  Nature  will  not  be  cor- 
nered, yet  she  does  many  things  in  a  corner 
and  surreptitiously.  She  is  all  things  to  all 
men  ;  she  has  whole  truths,  half  truths,  and 
quarter  truths,  if  not  still  smaller  fractions. 
The  careful  observer  finds  this  out  sooner 
or  later.  Old  fox-hunters  will  tell  you,  on 
the  evidence  of  their  own  eyes,  that  there 
is  a  black  fox  and  a  silver-gray  fox,  two 
species,  but  there  are  not ;  the  black  fox  is 
black  when  coming  toward  you  or  running 
from  you,  and  silver -gray  at  point-blank 
view,  when  the  eye  penetrates  the  fur; 
each  separate  hair  is  gray  the  first  half  and 
black  the  last.  This  is  a  sample  of  nature's 
half  truths. 

Which  are  our  sweet-scented  wild  flowers  ? 
209 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

Put  your  nose  to  every  flower  you  pluck, 
and  you  will  be  surprised  how  your  list  will 
swell  the  more  you  smell.  I  plucked  some 
wild  blue  violets  one  day,  the  ovata  variety 
of  the  sagittate^  that  had  a  faint  perfume  of 
sweet  clover,  but  I  never  could  find  another 
that  had  any  odor.  A  pupil  disputed  with 
his  teacher  about  the  hepatica,  claiming  in 
opposition  that  it  was  sweet-scented.  Some 
hepaticas  are  sweet-scented  and  some  are 
not,  and  the  perfume  is  stronger  some 
seasons  than  others.  After  the  unusually 
severe  winter  of  1 880-81,  the  variety  of 
hepatica  called  the  sharp-lobed  was  markedly 
sweet  in  nearly  every  one  of  the  hundreds 
of  specimens  I  examined.  A  handful  of 
them  exhaled  a  most  delicious  perfume. 
The  white  ones  that  season  were  largely  in 
the  ascendant ;  and  probably  the  white 
specimens  of  both  varieties,  one  season  with 
another,  will  oftenest  prove  sweet-scented. 
Darwin  says  a  considerably  larger  propor- 
tion of  white  flowers  are  sweet-scented  than 
of  any  other  color.  The  only  sweet  violets 
I  can  depend  upon  are  white,  Viola  blanda 
and  Viola  Canadensis,  and  white  largely 
predominates  among  our  other  odorous  wild 
flowers.  All  the  fruit-trees  have  white  or 

210 


A   SHARP  LOOKOUT 

pinkish  blossoms.  I  recall  no  native  blue 
flower  of  New  York  or  New  England  that 
is  fragrant  except  in  the  rare  case  of  the 
arrow-leaved  violet,  above  referred  to.  The 
earliest  yellow  flowers,  like  the  dandelion 
and  yellow  violets,  are  not  fragrant.  Later 
in  the  season  yellow  is  frequently  accom- 
panied with  fragrance,  as  in  the  evening 
primrose,  the  yellow  lady's-slipper,  horned 
bladderwort,  and  others. 

My  readers  probably  remember  that  on  a 
former  occasion  I  have  mildly  taken  the 
poet  Bryant  to  task  for  leading  his  readers 
to  infer  that  the  early  yellow  violet  was 
sweet-scented.  In  view  of  the  capricious- 
ness  of  the  perfume  of  certain  of  our  wild 
flowers,  I  have  during  the  past  few  years 
tried  industriously  to  convict  myself  of  error 
in  respect  to  this  flower.  The  round-leaved 
yellow  violet  was  one  of  the  earliest  and 
most  abundant  wild  flowers  in  the  woods 
where  my  youth  was  passed,  and  whither  I 
still  make  annual  pilgrimages.  I  have  pur- 
sued it  on  mountains  and  in  lowlands,  in 
"  beechen  woods  "  and  amid  the  hemlocks  ; 
and  while,  with  respect  to  its  earliness,  it 
overtakes  the  hepatica  in  the  latter  part  of 
April,  as  do  also  the  dog's-tooth  violet  and 

211 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

the  claytonia,  yet  the  first  hepaticas,  where 
the  two  plants  grow  side  by  side,  bloom 
about  a  week  before  the  first  violet.  And 
I  have  yet  to  find  one  that  has  an  odor  that 
could  be  called  a  perfume.  A  handful  of 
them,  indeed,  has  a  faint,  bitterish  smell, 
not  unlike  that  of  the  dandelion  in  quality  ; 
but  if  every  flower  that  has  a  smell  is  sweet- 
scented,  then  every  bird  that  makes  a  noise 
is  a  songster. 

On  the  occasion  above  referred  to,  I  also 
dissented  from  Lowell's  statement,  in  "  Al 
Fresco,"  that  in  early  summer  the  dandelion 
blooms,  in  general,  with  the  buttercup  and 
the  clover.  I  am  aware  that  such  criticism 
of  the  poets  is  small  game,  and  not  worth 
the  powder.  General  truth,  and  not  speci- 
fic fact,  is  what  we  are  to  expect  of  the 
poets.  Bryant's  "  Yellow  Violet "  poem  is 
tender  and  appropriate,  and  such  as  only  a 
real  lover  and  observer  of  nature  could  feel 
or  express;  and  Lowell's  "Al  Fresco"  is 
full  of  the  luxurious  feeling  of  early  summer, 
and  this  is,  of  course,  the  main  thing;  a 
good  reader  cares  for  little  else ;  I  care  for 
little  else  myself.  But  when  you  take  your 
coin  to  the  assay  office  it  must  be  weighed 
and  tested,  and  in  the  comments  referred 

212 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

to  I  (unwisely  perhaps)  sought  to  smelt  this 
gold  of  the  poets  in  the  naturalist's  pot,  to 
see  what  alloy  of  error  I  could  detect  in  it. 
Were  the  poems  true  to  their  last  word  ? 
They  were  not,  and  much  subsequent  in- 
vestigation has  only  confirmed  my  first 
analysis.  The  general  truth  is  on  my  side, 
and  the  specific  fact,  if  such  exists  in  this 
case,  on  the  side  of  the  poets.  It  is  possible 
that  there  may  be  a  fragrant  yellow  violet, 
as  an  exceptional  occurrence,  like  that  of 
the  sweet-scented,  arrow -leaved  species 
above  referred  to,  and  that  in  some  locality 
it  may  have  bloomed  before  the  hepatica  ; 
also  that  Lowell  may  have  seen  a  belated 
dandelion  or  two  in  June,  amid  the  clover 
and  the  buttercups ;  but,  if  so,  they  were 
the  exception,  and  not  the  rule,  —  the  speci- 
fic or  accidental  fact,  and  not  the  general 
truth. 

Dogmatism  about  nature,  or  about  any- 
thing else,  very  often  turns  out  to  be  an  un- 
grateful cur  that  bites  the  hand  that  reared 
it.  I  speak  from  experience.  I  was  once 
quite  certain  that  the  honey-bee  did  not 
work  upon  the  blossoms  of  the  trailing 
arbutus,  but  while  walking  in  the  woods 
one  April  day  I  came  upon  a  spot  of  arbutus 
213 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

swarming  with  honey-bees.  They  were  so 
eager  for  it  that  they  crawled  under  the 
leaves  and  the  moss  to  get  at  the  blossoms, 
and  refused  on  the  instant  the  hive-honey 
which  I  happened  to  have  with  me,  and 
which  I  offered  them.  I  had  had  this  flower 
under  observation  more  than  twenty  years, 
and  had  never  before  seen  it  visited  by 
honey-bees.  The  same  season  I  saw  them 
for  the  first  time  working  upon  the  flower 
of  bloodroot  and  of  adder's-tongue.  Hence 
I  would  not  undertake  to  say  again  what 
flowers  bees  do  not  work  upon.  Virgil  im- 
plies that  they  work  upon  the  violet,  and 
for  aught  I  know  they  may.  I  have  seen 
them  very  busy  on  the  blossoms  of  the 
white  oak,  though  this  is  not  considered  a 
honey  or  pollen  yielding  tree.  From  the 
smooth  sumac  they  reap  a  harvest  in  mid- 
summer, and  in  March  they  get  a  good 
grist  of  pollen  from  the  skunk-cabbage. 

I  presume,  however,  it  would  be  safe  to 
say  that  there  is  a  species  of  smilax  with  an 
unsavory  name  that  the  bee  does  not  visit, 
herbacea.  The  production  of  this  plant  is 
a  curious  freak  of  nature.  I  find  it  growing 
along  the  fences  where  one  would  look  for 
wild  roses  or  the  sweetbrier  ;  its  recurving 
214 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

or  climbing  stem,  its  glossy,  deep-green, 
heart-shaped  leaves,  its  clustering  umbels 
of  small  greenish-yellow  flowers,  making  it 
very  pleasing  to  the  eye  ;  but  to  examine  it 
closely  one  must  positively  hold  his  nose. 
It  would  be  too  cruel  a  joke  to  offer  it  to 
any  person  not  acquainted  with  it  to  smell. 
It  is  like  the  vent  of  a  charnel-house.  It  is 
first  cousin  to  the  trilliums,  among  the  pret- 
tiest of  our  native  wild  flowers,  and  the 
same  bad  blood  crops  out  in  the  purple  tril- 
lium  or  birthroot. 

Nature  will  include  the  disagreeable  and 
repulsive  also.  I  have  seen  the  phallic 
fungus  growing  in  June  under  a  rosebush. 
There  was  the  rose,  and  beneath  it,  spring- 
ing from  the  same  mould,  was  this  diabolical 
offering  to  Priapus.  With  the  perfume  of 
the  roses  into  the  open  window  came  the 
stench  of  this  hideous  parody,  as  if  in  mock- 
ery. I  removed  it,  and  another  appeared 
in  the  same  place  shortly  afterward.  The 
•earthman  was  rampant  and  insulting.  Pan 
is  not  dead  yet.  At  least  he  still  makes  a 
ghastly  sign  here  and  there  in  nature. 

The  good  observer  of  nature  exists  in 
fragments,  a  trait  here  and  a  trait  there. 
Each  person  sees  what  it  concerns  him  to 
215 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

see.  The  fox-hunter  knows  pretty  well  the 
ways  and  habits  of  the  fox,  but  on  any 
other  subject  he  is  apt  to  mislead  you.  He 
comes  to  see  only  fox  traits  in  whatever  he 
looks  upon.  The  bee-hunter  will  follow  the 
bee,  but  lose  the  bird.  The  farmer  notes 
what  affects  his  crops  and  his  earnings,  and 
little  else.  Common  people,  St.  Pierre  says, 
observe  without  reasoning,  and  the  learned 
reason  without  observing.  If  one  could 
apply  to  the  observation  of  nature  the  sense 
.  and  skill  of  the  South  American  rastreador, 
or  trailer,  how  much  he  would  track  home ! 
This  man's  eye,  according  to  the  accounts 
of  travelers,  is  keener  than  a  hound's  scent. 
A  fugitive  can  no  more  elude  him  than  he 
can  elude  fate.  His  perceptions  are  said  to 
be  so  keen  that  the  displacement  of  a  leaf 
or  pebble,  or  the  bending  down  of  a  spear 
of  grass,  or  the  removal  of  a  little  dust  from 
the  fence  are  enough  to  give  him  the  clew. 
He  sees  the  half-obliterated  footprints  of  a 
thief  in  the  sand,  and  carries  the  impression 
in  his  eye  till  a  year  afterward,  when  he 
again  detects  the  same  footprint  in  the  sub- 
urbs of  a  city,  and  the  culprit  is  tracked 
home  and  caught.  I  knew  a  man  blind 
from  his  youth  who  not  only  went  about  his 
216 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

own  neighborhood  without  a  guide,  turning 
up  to  his  neighbor's  gate  or  door  as  un- 
erringly as  if  he  had  the  best  of  eyes,  but 
who  would  go  many  miles  on  an  errand  to 
a  new  part  of  the  country.  He  seemed  to 
carry  a  map  of  the  township  in  the  bottom 
of  his  feet,  a  most  minute  and  accurate  sur- 
vey. He  never  took  the  wrong  road,  and  he 
knew  the  right  house  when  he  had  reached 
it.  He  was  a  miller  and  fuller,  and  ran  his 
mill  at  night  while  his  sons  ran  it  by  day. 
He  never  made  a  mistake  with  his  custom- 
ers' bags  or  wool,  knowing  each  man's  by 
the  sense  of  touch.  He  frightened  a  colored 
man  whom  he  detected  stealing,  as  if  he  had 
seen  out  of  the  back  of  his  head.  Such 
facts  show  one  how  delicate  and  sensitive  a 
man's  relation  to  outward  nature  through 
his  bodily  senses  may  become.  Heighten 
it  a  little  more,  and  he  could  forecast  the 
weather  and  the  seasons,  and  detect  hidden 
springs  and  minerals.  A  good  observer  has 
something  of  this  delicacy  and  quickness  of 
perception.  All  the  great  poets  and  natural- 
ists have  it.  Agassiz  traces  the  glaciers 
like  a  rastreador ;  and  Darwin  misses  no 
step  that  the  slow  but  tireless  gods  of  physi- 
cal change  have  taken,  no  matter  how  they 
217 


A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS 

cross  or  retrace  their  course.  In  the  obscure 
fish-worm  he  sees  an  agent  that  has  kneaded 
and  leavened  the  soil  like  giant  hands. 

One  secret  of  success  in  observing  nature 
is  capacity  to  take  a  hint ;  a  hair  may  show 
where  a  lion  is  hid.  One  must  put  this  and 
that  together,  and  value  bits  and  shreds. 
Much  alloy  exists  with  the  truth.  The  gold 
of  nature  does  not  look  like  gold  at  the  first 
glance.  It  must  be  smelted  and  refined  in 
the  mind  of  the  observer.  And  one  must 
crush  mountains  of  quartz  and  wash  hills  of 
sand  to  get  it.  To  know  the  indications  is 
the  main  matter.  People  who  do  not  know 
the  secret  are  eager  to  take  a  walk  with  the 
observer  to  find  where  the  mine  is  that  con- 
tains such  nuggets,  little  knowing  that  his 
ore-bed  is  but  a  gravel-heap  to  them.  How 
insignificant  appear  most  of  the  facts  which 
one  sees  in  his  walks,  in  the  life  of  the  birds, 
the  flowers,  the  animals,  or  in  the  phases  of 
the  landscape,  or  the  look  of  the  sky  !  —  in- 
significant until  they  are  put  through  some 
mental  or  emotional  process  and  their  true 
value  appears.  The  diamond  looks  like  a 
pebble  until  it  is  cut.  One  goes  to  Nature 
only  for  hints  and  half  truths.  Her  facts 
are  crude  until  you  have  absorbed  them  or 
218 


A  SHARP  LOOKOUT 

translated  them.  Then  the  ideal  steals  in 
and  lends  a  charm  in  spite  of  one.  It  is 
not  so  much  what  we  see  as  what  the  thing 
seen  suggests.  We  all  see  about  the  same  ; 
to  one  it  means  much,  to  another  little.  A 
fact  that  has  passed  through  the  mind  of 
man,  like  lime  or  iron  that  has  passed 
through  his  blood,  has  some  quality  or  prop- 
erty superadded  or  brought  out  that  it  did 
not  possess  before.  You  may  go  to  the 
fields  and  the  woods,  and  gather  fruit  that 
is  ripe  for  the  palate  without  any  aid  of 
yours,  but  you  cannot  do  this  in  science  or 
in  art.  Here  truth  must  be  disentangled 
and  interpreted,  —  must  be  made  in  the  im- 
age of  man.  Hence  all  good  observation  is 
more  or  less  a  refining  and  transmuting  pro- 
cess, and  the  secret  is  to  know  the  crude 
material  when  you  see  it.  I  think  of  Words- 
worth's lines :  — 

<l  The  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create  and  what  perceive ; " 

which  is  as  true  in  the  case  of  the  naturalist 
as  of  the  poet;  both  "half  create"  the 
world  they  describe.  Darwin  does  some- 
thing to  his  facts  as  well  as  Tennyson  to 
his.  Before  a  fact  can  become  poetry,  it 
must  pass  through  the  heart  or  the  imagi- 
219 


A  YEAR  IN  THE   FIELDS 

nation  of  the  poet ;  before  it  can  become 
science,  it  must  pass  through  the  under- 
standing of  the  scientist.  Or  one  may  say, 
it  is  with  the  thoughts  and  half  thoughts 
that  the  walker  gathers  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  as  with  the  common  weeds  and 
coarser  wild  flowers  which  he  plucks  for  a 
bouquet,  —  wild  carrot,  purple  aster,  moth 
mullein,  sedge,  grass,  etc. :  they  look  com- 
mon and  uninteresting  enough  there  in  the 
fields,  but  the  moment  he  separates  them 
from  the  tangled  mass,  and  brings  them  in- 
doors, and  places  them  in  a  vase,  say  of 
some  choice  glass,  amid  artificial  things, 
—  behold,  how  beautiful !  They  have  an 
added  charm  and  significance  at  once ;  they 
are  defined  and  identified,  and  what  was  com- 
mon and  familiar  becomes  unexpectedly  at- 
tractive. The  writer's  style,  the  quality  of 
mind  he  brings,  is  the  vase  in  which  his 
commonplace  impressions  and  incidents  are 
made  to  appear  so  beautiful  and  significant. 
Man  can  have  but  one  interest  in  nature, 
namely,  to  see  himself  reflected  or  inter- 
preted.  there ;  and  we  quickly  neglect  both 
poet  and  philosopher  who  fail  to  satisfy,  in 
some  measure,  this  feeling. 
220 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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APR  2  7  1989 

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